The Match and the Spark
by Hannah-1888
Summary: The repercussions of the final battle did not pan out in the way some people might have hoped. Hermione, for one, has something she needs to resolve—justice for her friend. But where should she begin?  Mostly DH compliant.
1. Prologue

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**Prologue**

There was blood trickling warmly down his forehead and over his cheek. No matter how many times he wiped at it, it continued to flow. The muscles in his legs burned as he scrambled uphill, hauling himself up with his hands over rocky outcrops, and dodging the tree roots that seemed aimed at tripping him up. He would not falter now.

His wand—he needed his wand.

He knew he did not have it. It was lying somewhere amongst the debris of Hogwarts. It was useless to kick himself over it, but he swore viciously, nevertheless, for the umpteenth time—he would not be able to Apparate now.

The climb continued upwards, but he would not give up. He was without his wand, but all was not lost. He knew exactly where he could go. How he would get there, he was unsure. He supposed he could keep an eye out for some unsuspecting Muggle that might come along in one of those car things. First, though, he would need to find a road.

How long he'd been running, he had no idea, but every muscle in his body seemed to be protesting now, and he had to slump against a rock, breathing deeply. A moment's rest, he could allow himself that much. He dared to look behind him, and there, across the valley, looming out of the side of the mountain, were the smoking turrets of Hogwarts.

He felt like laughing—a wild laugh of abandon. They'd never catch him now. It would probably be a while before they even noticed he was not amongst the dead or captured, and by the time they did, he'd be long gone. He will have escaped the net—one of the very few to do so. He'd fled past so many of his fallen comrades during his flight from the stricken castle that he had to wonder if he would be the _only_ one to do so.

He pushed himself to his feet, wiping the blood off his cheek with his sleeve. He _needed_ his wand. Still, the fact that he'd lost his wand might, in time, work in his favour, and besides, no doubt he could get his hands on another one soon.

He struggled on mercilessly, and eventually the terrain, to his relief, began to flatten. He paused once more and rubbed his blistered hands on his robes, taking several exhausted breaths. He was in an area of woodland now, and he moved carefully between the trees until he stood looking over a verge. There was now a clear view of what lay before him. It did not fill him with relief. The prospect was miles and miles of jagged, bleak mountains. He scanned the horizon helplessly; which direction to choose? Would it matter?

He needed to find the nearest Muggle settlement. It was ironic, but they would provide his cover for the time being.

But who knew how far away safety lay? And with darkness descending…

Winding through the valley below, he noticed, was the railway line. That, at least, would be a path to follow, for now.

There was nothing for it, except to give up there and then, and that was not an option. He took to his heels once more and headed onwards. The Dark Lord might be defeated, but he would not be. He would not stand trial like some common criminal. He would not be thrown into Azkaban to rot for all time.

It was all working out in his head, already. His plan—his deception. First, he just needed some shelter.

He smiled as he ran.

It would all be so terribly easy.


	2. Life Extended

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**2. Life Extended**

Severus Snape shifted impatiently on his settee and closed his eyes tightly. There was only one thing on his mind, and it was something that recurred in his thoughts with, perhaps, unerring regularity—it was _his_ fault that he was still alive and not six feet under, as he'd always anticipated would be his state come the climax of the war.

It was all his own fault—that was the most galling thing.

His _own_ fault—no one to blame but himself. How much easier would it be to have someone on whom his ire, his resentment, and his disappointment, could be focused? It would be cold comfort, but comfort nevertheless. Instead, he could only rail at himself; curse _himself_ for the situation he was in now.

It was six months of nothing. He wondered, sometimes, if it really had been six months. It must have been, though. He'd watched the leaves in the garden turn from green, to red, to nothing, and the evenings change from light, to dusky, to complete darkness. Six months, at least, must have passed.

And what had he done in those six months? Nothing… What was there even for him to do? Nothing…

Days often spent just lying on the settee, staring up at the peeling ceiling, and cursing himself for his fixation with Potter. Because that was why he was alive—why he'd done it. Potter was the reason he'd not been able to let himself slip fully into the darkness that had awaited him in the Shrieking Shack. Potter was the reason why, with his last ounce of strength, he'd reached into his robes and tipped a phial potion onto his lips. His work had not been done. Potter had still been in danger, and he'd vowed to protect him always.

The best bit, the bit that always made him cringe with anguish, was the pointlessness of his action. As if one phial of antidote could have reanimated him enough that he could have pursued Potter, ensuring his longevity once more! His throat had been torn—his life seeping across the floor. While not dead, he'd certainly been done for, regardless of any pathetic attempt to revive himself.

But then someone had found him. He wasn't even sure who it was. Some Auror, perhaps. He could blame them, of course, but it was still his own fault. He'd prolonged the inevitable for too long, and now he had to pay the price for his foolish action.

Six months was nothing to what lay ahead, of course. Twelve months; eighteen months; twenty-four months; thirty-six months…

His days were spent mostly in silence. Sometimes he'd put on the old record player that he'd charmed to function without electricity. He had some old classical pieces Dumbledore had given him that he sometimes liked to play. The soft strains often added a clarity to his thinking that he liked, carrying him away in his thoughts, after a fashion. Thoughts of Dumbledore, of Voldemort, of Lily, of Potter, of his mother, of his father, of himself… There was much to deliberate over—a lifetime to deliberate over, in fact.

Sometimes, he could be so absorbed in his thoughts, so lost in certain memories, that hours could pass without him even realising it. He would awaken, almost as if from a dream, out of his imaginings and feel disorientated and, oddly enough, tired. He wondered if the last twenty years were finally catching up with him, but whatever it was, at times he felt a weariness that went into his very bones.

Why he did not end it all himself? There were days when he gave it real thought. It could hardly be considered that he was living a full and prosperous life, and there was no one around who would be hurt by such an action, not really. It could be easily done. He had enough self-hatred and disgust inside of him that he did not doubt he could turn his wand on himself and be successful.

But he couldn't—knew he never would. He might entertain such thoughts and sigh with the prospect of such freedom, but he could not bring himself to act. Something held him back. He was not a coward in life and he did not want to be one in death, either. Though what did it matter, really? Self-respect—did he even have any of that left? One more stain was hardly likely to make a difference. Nevertheless, the remnants of his self-respect and pride would sustain him for the time being.

His existence was probably no less than what he deserved. A lifetime of dwelling over one's sins with not even the faintest prospect that one might atone for them—that was the underlining of his existence. Whatever good he might have done for Potter or Dumbledore had been offset by the bad he'd done for Voldemort. Maybe, in the balance of things, he'd evened things out with regard to his deeds of good and evil, but what remained? A man fundamentally flawed, mired in regret, and if not filled with complete hate at the world around him, then certainly resentment, which, some might say they were one and the same, anyway. Besides, as he'd been told once before, some spots never wash off.

But, still, there were days when things did not seem entirely bleak; when getting up and being productive did not seem so utterly difficult, and so he performed the basic functions needed to sustain his continued existence, which, actually, wasn't a lot. A walk once a week to the corner shop to buy the basics, and that was it. He needed very little.

Of the world, both Muggle and Magical, he had no idea. He shunned newspapers, having no desire to read of anything. Such blissful ignorance he had never known before. He had no visitors—he'd made it clear that he was not to be disturbed when he'd received the first Owl from Hogwarts following his release from St. Mungo's. Potter had also written, via Hogwarts, but that missive had gone straight in the fire. He'd received another missive via Hogwarts, too, this time from Hermione Granger. Minerva knew better than to divulge his whereabouts to anyone whom he did not wish to know them. Minerva had written that Miss Granger wished to speak with him, well, he had no desire to speak with her. That letter had gone in the fire unopened. Official looking epistles had also arrived during the first few weeks of his recovery—they'd gone in the fire, too. If the Ministry needed him for anything that badly, they could come and get him.

These were the rare moments of disruption to his routine. Sometimes his front door would knock, and the sound, so foreign, would cause him to freeze with surprise and anticipation. His breathing would increase, and then it would pass. He never opened the door, but no doubt it was only ever some Muggle selling something or wanting to talk about religion. It was the same with the letters. He would be briefly curious about what they contained, but then the apathy would come upon him and as soon as the parchment became ashes, the instance was gone from his mind.

He had quiet, though, and solitude, and despite everything, it was like a balm to his frayed nerves. His mind might turn to the dark torment of regret, but he was alone. He was unbothered. He was answerable to no one. To indulge in stretches of listless, black moods, to _revel_ in such incapacitating ennui was, perhaps, paradoxically, exhilarating. There was nothing else, but to _be_, and for a man who had not been allowed to do that for many years, there was a certain inherent sense of relief.

It was not peace, in the truest sense of the word, but it was calm, and in actual fact, he wasn't sure what more, if anything, there was to expect.

Thus, there were days when he almost felt an odd sense of contentment. He felt like he could enjoy living on his own in a way he had not when he had been surrounded by others. Some days, he felt he might like to force his troubled thoughts from his mind, fight off the lassitude, and get up and _do_ something. The urge would come upon him in a burst of positive feeling. He would think of his cauldron, and of brewing, and while the impulse was upon him, he would sneak to the nearest Apothecary, collect some ingredients, and then return with the idea of spending the afternoon brewing.

But, afterwards, the same thing would always happen.

He would place his cauldron over the burner, but could never bring himself to light it. He would raise a knife to hover over a Shrivelfig, but could never bring himself to skin it. What was the point? Staring into the darkness of the cauldron, that was all he could ever wonder: _What was the point_? What difference was it going to make? No one needed his potions; not even he. He could not brew for pleasure anymore—there was no pleasure to be had. Six months without chopping, without stirring… What was another month? The ingredients he bought would be shoved in the cupboard until they deteriorated, or until they were brought out during another urge that would end up being thwarted.

Maybe if he had a purpose—a job, perhaps, his outlook would be different. But it was too easy to exist without one. When his money ran out, maybe he'd have to find one. Where? How? He did not know. His money would last a long time yet, however. He had very little expenditure. In fact, he had no bills to pay; all Muggle utilities having long since abandoned the house in Spinner's End. He had no need of them. He could conjure water from his wand; have light from his candles; heat from his fire.

Nevertheless, there were days, of course, when he had to leave the confines of his little terraced house. Neither was it always to venture only several yards to the nearest shop for food or candles (he was probably the only one in the whole town who regularly bought them). It had taken him a while to find a shop that sold your ordinary, bog-standard candle—he wanted none of these sickly smelling scented ones. No, sometimes, he was forced to venture further afield, but those times were thankfully rare.

And that was why he had hauled himself upstairs and was currently standing in his bedroom, half-heartedly buttoning up a shirt.

It had become apparent that he was running low on Muggle money. Therefore, a trip to Gringotts' bank would have to be in order. He considered that it would probably be better for him to open a Muggle bank account, and then he could use one of those cards, but he just couldn't be bothered with all the hassle. The trip to Gringotts' itself was never too bad on his nerves. The goblins said precious little to him, beyond what was necessary, and that was the way he liked it. It was venturing into Diagon Alley that he shied away from. He might bump into any former acquaintance there and he dreaded such an occurrence.

But he could hardly go to Gringotts in disguise, even if he could be bothered with that sort of thing. The times he'd been before he'd remained unnoticed, and he continually hoped that his luck would continue. There were certain things in his favour—he looked slightly different now than he used to. For one, his hair had been unceremoniously hacked off by the Healer who'd initially treated him—something about it being plastered to his neck with blood. Such a mundane occurrence had actually unsettled him. For a few weeks, he had found himself uncomfortably reminded of both Potters whenever he caught a glimpse of his reflection.

Still, it was growing out again, now, and as it became longer, it lay flatter. In truth, he rarely sought to look at his reflection. He'd become lax with regard to shaving, even though all that was needed was a flick of his wand, but sometimes he'd leave it for weeks. Because when he did see his reflection, perversely, he loved that he outwardly reflected what he felt like inwardly. He looked tired, he looked drawn, he looked, maybe, even ill.

He could also cover up unobtrusively when going out now. It was winter. It was often cold and wet. To go out, he would put a cloak on over his black shirt, giving him just enough warding against the chill, but not so much that he could not feel it. The cold seeping into his bones was one of the few reminders that he was, indeed, alive, and not some dispossessed spirit wandering the mortal plane without purpose. He pulled the hood of his cloak low over his head, and so no one would be any the wiser to his presence.

He left Spinner's End at nine o'clock that morning, as soon as the bank opened its doors. He appeared in the cobbled alley and, for a moment, the daylight hurt his eyes. The discomfort soon passed—it was not a bright day. The sky was leaden when he'd left, and it was leaden in London, too. Winds gusted down the alley, lending a chill to the air that made even him curl his hands deep into his pockets. Gloves would have helped, he decided belatedly. Did he even own gloves anymore?

He made for the bank immediately, and once inside, he was served straight away—no dithering nor dallying, for which he was grateful. He was taken to his vault, whereupon he scooped out a bagful of coins, and thence to the exchange desk to collect some Sterling. It was all over within a matter of fifteen minutes. The goblins hadn't blinked once at his presence. Now, his thoughts were only focused on the fact that once outside, he would Apparate straight into his living room.

He could not have known that some trifling occurrence would conspire to wrong-foot his very existence.

He pulled his hood over his head before leaving the bank, and he cut an unremarkable figure as he pulled open the door and walked out onto the steps. It was that moment that he was taken by surprise. A particularly furious gust of wind accosted him, blowing the hood of his cloak entirely back from his head, and suddenly, he was completely visible. He felt a fleeting swell of irrational panic inside him.

He wrenched the fabric back over his head. But there were few people about, he reminded himself. No one cared about the extremely mundane fact that he was simply a man standing on some steps.

He breathed deeply, angry at himself. But it was then that he heard it—the one sound he always feared to hear on his rare visits to Diagon Alley.

'_Professor_!'

His head snapped involuntarily towards the sound, and as soon as he had control of his faculties again, he looked away. He would ignore it. He didn't want to know who it was.

'_Professor, wait_!'

The voice was getting closer, but he seemed almost frozen to the spot. They were after someone else, not him… But, he'd seen. He'd already seen Hermione Granger running towards him.

He would not speak to her—did not want to speak to her.

'_Sir_!'

She was at the bottom of the steps. He closed his eyes, focused with all of his might on his living room, hurriedly turned on the spot, and _crack_!

The world stopped spinning, but he did not open his eyes. For a moment, he did not dare to. A feeling of cold dread swept through him with a shiver and his palms suddenly became clammy. She'd touched him. He'd hesitated for too long, and he'd felt a touch on his arm as he'd Disapparated.

He swallowed and opened his eyes, looking downwards to see confirmation of what he had feared. Quickly, he looked heavenwards with reflexive distaste. He had Disapparated and brought two of Hermione Granger's fingers with him.

He cursed her stupidity, even as a feeling of sickness settled in his stomach. Sickness at the sight of the dismembered fingers, or at the prospect of what he would have to do, he did not know. And he would have to do it, he could not ignore this. His stomach clenched and he reached into his pocket for his wand.

Why couldn't she just leave him alone?

He conjured a handkerchief and gingerly bent down to retrieve the appendages. He let out a long steadying breath and mentally steeled himself.

Then, heart heavy, he closed his eyes and Disapparated.

* * *

AN: Trying something a little bit different to my usual—hope you will enjoy it.


	3. Matters Into Our Hands

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**3. Matters Into Our Hands**

The small room was the typical sterile white of a hospital, and in the middle was a solitary bed. On it, lay a solitary figure, unmoving. Around the head of the bed, certain magical instruments floated, monitoring the condition of the patient. They hadn't registered any change for good or ill in a long while. The room, while fundamentally clinical in atmosphere, had a touch of personality. Most importantly, a Chudley Cannons scarf lay draped across the headboard.

Around the bed were several chairs, one of which was currently occupied. Hermione Granger appeared distracted as she stared unseeingly into the ether, her disquiet lulled into force by the silence in the room. Her unrest had been growing for some time, but recently she had had cause to let it grow exponentially.

She glanced up when the door opened and closed quietly behind her. After a moment, she began shaking her head sadly. 'I still can't believe it,' she whispered.

Opposite her, sat Harry Potter, who simply looked at his hands wordlessly.

'What are we going to do? What _can_ we do?' Hermione looked at him imploringly.

'I don't know, Hermione, I really don't.'

Hermione ran a hand over her hair in frustration. 'It's nearly been six months, Harry. He's been lying there for _six_ months! There must be something! I just can't stand it any longer, sitting here doing nothing! Can _you_?'

Harry looked at her in surprise. 'I do care about Ron too, you know, Hermione.'

He looked offended, and Hermione felt apologetic. 'Sorry, Harry; I don't mean to sound… I just hate feeling useless…'

He only nodded understandingly. The door opened again and in came Ginny. She smiled slightly at them both and sat next to Harry, reaching out to momentarily squeeze Ron's hand.

'The Aurors have given up the search—what else is there?' said Ginny softly, knowing what the issue of tension between Harry and Hermione was.

'But he's out there, I know it,' stated Hermione flatly, staring at the supine Ron. 'And while he is, there's no hope for Ron.'

'So what do you suggest?' asked Harry. 'The Aurors have found no trace of him, Hermione, in ages. He could be long out of the country by now and you know it. Surely there must be another way of lifting the curse? That is where we should be concentrating.'

'There's not, Harry. I've tried as best I can, you know I have.'

She must have scoured every single book on curses that she could get her hands on, and they'd all told her the same bloody thing every time.

Silence descended between them and Hermione turned her head back to the slumbering redhead who had not moved for six months. She missed him terribly. She missed his inappropriate comments. She missed his moments of ignorance. She missed his humour. She missed… well, there were lots of things she missed. But it didn't have to be that way. The possibility of Ron's recovery was out there—somewhere.

'We should never have left it to the Aurors,' said Hermione.

'It wasn't as simple as that, Hermione,' replied Ginny diplomatically.

Hermione nodded a fraction. 'I know,' she said softly.

Ginny was right. It had taken them all by complete surprise. They hadn't been able to identify Ron's ailment for several days following it's onset. Everyone had been picking up the pieces of their lives following the end of the war, and the Aurors had been confident that they would capture all those responsible. They'd made a big publicity gesture out of it—promising to restore harmony to the Magical community once more by bringing those responsible for the discord to justice. And of course, it had been a double-blow for the Weasley family, and they'd needed support. They just couldn't have taken the matter into their own hands. It had been, maybe, a relief to rely on the Aurors, and at that time, it had seemed the Aurors had known what they were doing. They'd had some major successes. Death Eaters were being rounded up swiftly and efficiently.

It was, perhaps, simply Sod's Law that their case would be the one that proved a step too far for them.

'If only we had the information the Ministry has on the investigation!'

'It's frustrating,' Harry agreed. 'But you know they won't give it to us. None of the details of the Death Eater investigations will be made public yet for fear of vigilantism.'

Hermione knew this, too, but she still wished it were not the case. The Aurors were steadfast. She had tried her luck with them, but they would not reveal any details whatsoever about ongoing investigations.

'I've half a mind to contact Malfoy, and see if he knows anything about him.'

'Don't go snooping around the Malfoys,' warned Ginny. 'I wouldn't trust anything they could tell us.'

Harry cleared his throat. 'Well, I've been thinking, and, ah, what about contacting Snape? He's the only member of the Death Eaters that you wouldn't have to go to Azkaban to see.'

Hermione looked at him swiftly in some surprise. 'Professor Snape? Merlin, why didn't _I_ think of that? I never thought… Where is he? I haven't heard a peep about him for ages.'

'That's the only problem,' said Harry. 'No one knows where he is, apart from McGonagall, probably. Well, she did know a few months back, anyway, because she sent a letter on to him for me.'

'I doubt there's anything useful he can tell us,' commented Ginny grimly. 'He never responded to Harry's letter.'

Harry nodded in agreement.

Hermione ignored them, too busy mentally forming her plan of action. Any _tiny_ piece of information could be crucial, and one piece could be all that was needed to get on the right track. She would write to Professor McGonagall and ask her to forward a letter on to Professor Snape. She would also try her luck at requesting a face-to-face meeting with him. It could be just the breakthrough they needed.

'Don't get your hopes up, Hermione. Realistically, what could he tell us?'

'Anything, Harry. We haven't been able to find out where that bastard lived, let alone anything else, thanks to the Aurors! That would be something!'

'But then what, Hermione? Are we to run off and track him down ourselves?'

Ginny laid a fearful hand on Harry's arm. Hermione looked away.

'I don't know, Harry. Let's just see how this goes first, all right?'

She knew they couldn't just take off. Or, at least, Harry couldn't. She knew he would do anything to help Ron, but he had responsibilities now, not least to Ron's sister. And there was no way Mrs Weasley would be letting Ginny out of her sight.

Hermione got to her feet. 'I'm going to go and write that letter, now. We can do no more than try.'

She moved to the head of the bed and leaned down to press a kiss to Ron's cheek. She hated how pale he'd become—unnaturally pale. It always made her throat stick to see it.

'See you later, Ron,' she whispered, and after bidding her other friends goodbye, she headed for home. She had a letter to write.

Which, she did, and then sent it on its way up to Scotland post-haste.

She didn't wait long for a reply from McGonagall, but it wasn't very promising. The older woman wrote back saying that she 'shouldn't hold out too much hope of Severus replying.' And though Hermione could not heed the advice, it nevertheless turned out that McGonagall was right to caution. Three weeks after the fact, she'd heard nothing from her elusive former teacher, and she was disappointed, severely disappointed, in fact. She'd had faith that he would have at least replied to her letter. She'd believed that despite however much he disliked Ron, and Harry, and herself, he would have offered whatever help was in his power to give, however small. Even if he knew nothing, he might have at least acknowledged the position they were in. But there was nothing.

And it wasn't that the letter could have gone astray. McGonagall had assured her that her owl had indeed delivered the letter into the hands of Severus Snape and no other. _So, stuff him!_ Hermione thought. She'd find a way on her own.

Still, it didn't stop her from feeling a small pang of hope every time an owl tapped at her window. It was to be a pointless hope, however.

If that way was shut to her, she was determined there had to be another. It was when she spied Draco Malfoy in Diagon Alley that she considered she might have to go against the wishes of her friends. Maybe Draco would speak to his father for her, or his mother. Or maybe he, himself, would know something. She did not approach him that first time she saw him, however. Ginny was right to say she didn't think she would ever fully trust a Malfoy. Hermione decided she should probably tread carefully in such matters.

But she began to notice a pattern. She always went into Diagon Alley before her early morning visits to Ron, and two consecutive mornings she saw Draco disappear down into Knockturn Alley. Was he up to anything nefarious? She had to wonder. Although, word was that fortunes for the Malfoy's had disintegrated significantly following the war and Malfoy senior's subsequent imprisonment. Maybe Draco was selling off some Dark items, the family silver, so to speak, to make ends meet.

Each time she saw him, she told herself to just go up to him, and the third time she witnessed him slinking off into the narrow alleyway, Hermione moved out of the doorway to Flourish and Blotts' and headed determinedly after him. She would just have to be on her utmost guard when dealing with him.

As she walked quickly, she didn't know what made her glance away from her quarry. Maybe she was concerned someone might see her disappearing into Knockturn Alley. Whatever it was, she happened to glance to her left, and at first she didn't comprehend it. It was only when the man on the steps to Gringott's bank had replaced his hood that she realised she'd just seen Severus Snape.

Thoughts of Malfoy suddenly fled from her mind. Neither did she care that she might have been mistaken in her identification of Snape. It had only been a fleeting glance, after all. Before she knew what she was about, her legs were carrying her forward and she was calling out to him.

He indicated no response—made no sign that he'd even heard her. So she shouted louder, and she moved faster towards him. He appeared almost statue-like, completely still, but then she saw his hand fold into his robe pocket. She knew it was for his wand, and maybe it was to hex her, but she rather thought he was about to Apparate.

'_Sir_!' she cried. Why wouldn't he acknowledge her?

Hermione took the steps two at time. He was going to turn and Apparate at any second. What more was there for her to do? Given time to think about it, she might have decided against recklessly lunging at him, but she did not have time to think about it. It was instinct that made her fling out her arm towards him.

And then it was blinding, _hot_ pain.

Gasping aloud, she collapsed to her knees and clutched her hand close to her body.

She breathed shallowly as shock coursed through her system. And the blood… She shakily wrapped her robe around her hand to staunch the bleeding. Bile rose up in her throat—her forefinger and middle finger were missing; she winced against the pain.

_Why_ had she touched him as he was about to Apparate? Merlin, what if he didn't come back? She whimpered. What if he hadn't realised?

It seemed like she sat there for hours, in a daze, but actually, only a few moments later, the tell-tale crack of Apparition made her start. Hermione could only stare up at him wide-eyed. The one thought to penetrate the fuzziness in her mind was to establish that at least she'd been right—it _was_ none other than her former Potions master. Wordlessly, he reached down and, curling a hand around her upper arm, hauled her to her feet. She could only register the throbbing of her injured hand as he did so.

Another crack sounded as he transported them both to the reception area of St. Mungo's hospital. She watched, almost fearfully, as he placed her handkerchief-wrapped fingers on the desk. The Welcome Witch took one look at them and enquired, 'Splinching?'

Hermione nodded fervently.

'Go on through.'

Snape dragged her through to accident and emergency, where they were immediately set upon by a mediwitch who sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of her. They were shown into a cubicle, where Hermione sat down on a bed, observing the mediwitch unwrap the fingers and levitate them onto a tray. Wincing at the sight of her bloodied fingers, she measured a glance at Snape and inwardly bridled when she saw he was turning on his heel. He would go, would he? He had his hand on the curtain, to pull it aside and storm out of there. Well, she would not let him go.

'Sir, I _must_ speak with you,' she burst out forcefully, despite the shakes that travelled through her body. She felt like she might be sick at any moment, but she would not allow it.

She watched him pause, but he did not turn around.

'It's imperative that I do,' she continued urgently. 'I'll Splinch all of my fingers off if that's what it takes.'

Hermione meant it wholeheartedly. She _willed_ him to turn around. He had to be curious about what she wanted him for, didn't he? How could he just brush her off?

'Please, sir.'

He glanced at her, finally, and she had to force herself not to look away when he did so. He did not look as she remembered—he looked unwell. She decided to stare back resolutely as the mediwitch waved her wand around her wounded hand. They didn't have to talk at the hospital. It could be on his terms, and in an environment where he felt comfortable. She really didn't give a toss about where they spoke, just as long as they did, indeed, speak.

But he shook his head minutely and made to leave, _again_. Her reaction was immediate. She could not have stopped herself even if she'd wanted to. She launched herself off the bed—the mediwitch yelped in surprise—and almost sprung herself towards him. The movement was enough to forestall his exit, and he surveyed her as she stood before him, her uninjured arm outstretched entreatingly.

'Your, ah, hand will be as good as new in a jiffy…' observed the mediwitch carefully, looking between them as she guided Hermione back to the bed.

He seemed to take an age to decide, but eventually, he said quietly, 'Very well, I shall wait.'

Hermione breathed with relief. The mediwitch bustled around her and quickly reattached her fingers, before strapping them together with a bandage.

'The feeling will return to them soon,' she assured. 'Just keep them still, and take a Pain potion if you have any discomfort.'

Hermione thanked her, but the moment her hand was mended, she noticed Snape become rather impatient, so she stood and approached him. Without warning, he touched her arm and Apparated away with her. Ordinarily, she would have baulked at his presumptuousness in whisking her away without her consent, but in view of what she'd come for, she ignored it. She felt a little bewildered, momentarily, and she glanced around her surroundings. There wasn't much to see. A small room, dominated by a fireplace, some chairs and some books. It must be where he lives, she decided. Where, precisely, that was, she had no idea, and she supposed he'd done it so she would not be able to come back a second time.

She stood in the middle of the room, massaging her recently reattached fingers. He removed his cloak and sunk, she would say, gratefully, into his armchair. He placed his elbow on the arm of the chair and put his hand over his eyes.

'Speak,' he said flatly.

Hermione felt hesitation. She hardly knew where to begin, and there was something about his behaviour that was incredibly off-putting. He rubbed his brow irritably when she failed to comply. She was trying his nerves, already, she could tell.

'It's about Ron,' she said hurriedly.

He stilled. 'What,' he said in a deadly voice, 'do _I_ care about Weasley?' He removed his hand and looked at her, as if to emphasise his point.

Her expression darkened. 'He's been under that curse for six months, I—'

She'd never seen anyone look more long-suffering. 'Miss Granger, it's a deplorable habit to start a story in the middle.'

She raised a questioning eyebrow. 'You don't know?' How could he not have known? It had been all over the _Prophet_. Obviously, he hadn't even bothered to _open_ her letter.

He shrugged and rested his head against the back of the chair. Hermione sighed and sat down, looking at her hands for a moment. There was still some dried blood on her both her hands.

'It was, ah, a few days following the end of the war, actually, that we realised what had happened. The curse did not manifest itself straight away. During the battle in the Great Hall, Ron got hit quite badly by a spell—it sent him flying—but, apart from being physically hurt, he seemed fine. But… sometime later, he began unexpectedly to lose consciousness for periods of time, and now, well, it has escalated so that he's in a permanently comatose state.'

Her eyes were sombre, and her expression regretful. He looked away.

'Usually, curses such as those may only be lifted by he who cast it in the first place.'

Clearly, he thought she was wasting his time.

'I—we know. I am not here for information on the curse. I am here because we know who cast it. I am here because Horatio Selwyn, the Death Eater who cursed Ron, has managed to evade capture by the Aurors for the past six months. I am here because I want to know everything _you_ do about Selwyn.'

She tried to read his expression, but his face was turned into shadow.

'How has he evaded capture?' he asked.

'He was disarmed during the battle, but in the melee, he managed to slip away. There have been sightings, but a few weeks ago, the Aurors officially gave up actively investigating his disappearance. They'll only reopen the case on the basis of new information.' Hermione straightened in her chair. 'So if they won't find him, I will.'

Snape looked unmoved by her resolution. 'It may be possible to remove the curse with only his wand.'

Hermione shook her head negatively. 'The Aurors, in their infinite wisdom, snapped his wand as soon as it was retrieved. We've had it mended as best as possible, but it won't respond to anyone.'

He looked, suddenly, like he might laugh, and Hermione bristled. She hoped, for his sake, that he was merely reacting to the predictable incompetence of the Ministry, and not anything else. She'd let the incident slide, this time.

'So?' she demanded after a lengthy silence, when he said nothing and only stared into the fireplace.

He blinked, and she had to wonder if he'd momentarily forgotten her presence. His expression become one of disinterest. 'So, what?'

She frowned. 'What do you know of Selwyn?'

'It was the Death Eaters, Miss Granger, not the Women's Institute. Do you think we sat around swapping personal anecdotes?'

Hermione coloured. For the first time since she'd caught up with him, he'd sounded like the teacher she remembered. She had not failed to notice that, otherwise, there was a conspicuous lack of bite in his tone. 'You _must_ know something about him.'

'Nothing that can be of use.'

'I think I shall be the judge of that, thank you!'

'I am not getting involved,' he muttered. 'Now, I'd like to be left alone.'

She stared, and then shook her head. 'No, I don't believe it. You do realise, sir, that regardless of whether you talk or not, I'll go after him. If neither you nor the Aurors will help me, I'll find other means of gathering information.'

'And where is Potter in all of this?'

Hermione made sure to give nothing away. 'Harry supports me and will help me in any way he can.'

Harry had no idea what she was up to, and she was unsure whether she would tell him she'd even spoken to Snape. It depended on the outcome, she supposed.

'What makes you think Selwyn hasn't fled the country, or completely changed his identity?'

Hermione leant forward, her elbows resting on her knees. 'I can't deny that it's a possibility, but consider: he is without his own wand. It's possible he's stolen one from somewhere, but there's no guarantee it will perform efficiently. He has family within Britain, but no obvious connections abroad. More importantly, Floo stations are on the alert for him. Muggle transport is also closed to him because he has no Muggle passport—I've checked.'

He did not look convinced. 'What if he's Polyjuiced himself into a Muggle and using their passport?'

'I confess, that is a possibility. However, I should think it difficult for him to come across Polyjuice on the run. If he were going to leave the country, it is my opinion that he would have done so by now, but there was a confirmed sighting two months ago in a town in Cumbria. '

She could have sworn his eyes flickered a fraction at that piece of information.

'You can't possibly think you can track down a fugitive such as he, Miss Granger. Give up, find some other way to remove the curse, and leave me be.'

She flew to her feet and her damaged fingers gave a throb of protest at the movement. 'I cannot find another way!' she blustered. 'This is the only way, and I shall do it with or without your help.' She glared at him, and then sighed impotently. It was useless. 'I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you.'

She wasn't sorry about that—just sorry that he'd thwarted her. She was not wasting his time—he was wasting _hers_. It was pointless.

He didn't look at her, but he did speak again, and she hadn't expected it. 'Have you considered fully the danger? I will not be made responsible for you encountering it.'

Her resentment dissipated slightly at that, but he was not responsible for her. She knew what she was doing—knew the possible danger she courted. She could make her own decisions.

'I am not blind to the danger,' she admitted quietly. 'But I must try—it's as simple as that.'

He got to his feet and leaned an elbow on the mantelpiece where he rubbed a hand over his chin. The gesture spoke of tiredness to her. Suddenly, she felt a small stab of regret for putting him in this position, when he clearly wanted nothing to do with it, and she didn't think it was because he held no regard for Ron, either. No, it appeared to be something else—something that made her feel like it was a completely different man standing before her. Not that she could ever say she'd known him before, but still. Something had clearly changed.

'Your giving me information does not make you responsible for my subsequent actions. If you were in my position, I think you might do the same as me.'

She had to keep pressing, it was clear that he must know something that might be of use, otherwise he wouldn't be prevaricating.

'Sir?' she enquired when he remained silent.

He raised a hand in a flippant gesture of surrender. 'Come back tomorrow, and I may have something for you.'

Success, finally. Hermione nodded slowly, maybe even a little solemnly. Inside, she felt a burst of triumph.'Thank you, sir. I shall be here tomorrow, then. I promise I will bother you no more beyond that.'

He didn't make any reply. She noticed the hand that hung by his side was clenched tightly, and something occurred to her that she probably should have enquired to at the start.

'Um… It was rude of me not to ask before, but are you well? No one's seen you for months…'

She trailed off when he fixed her with a look of ice. She probably deserved it, she decided. She'd come charging in without a thought for him. She had no idea as to what his life involved now, following the end of the war—nothing as to his health, situation, anything. She did feel a little shame, but her purpose in being there was no trifling thing, after all.

There was, actually, a lot she would like to say to him, one day, but now was obviously not the time.

'The door is through there. Leave, Miss Granger.'

Hermione did without further ado, feeling that it was best to do just as he said. She let herself out of the front door, situated at the end of a short, narrow passage, and found she was standing in a small street. The sound of a river could be heard nearby, no doubt swollen from the amount of rain they'd been having lately. _Spinner's_ _End_, the sign said. Where was Spinner's End? she wondered. She walked down the pavement to the end of the street and looked around. There were no signs of life anywhere, so she slipped into the lane running between the back gardens and Disapparated.

He would help her. He would give her a starting point from which to begin the search. And she was beginning to think it _would_ be a search. There really was nothing else for it but for her to take matters into her own hands.

After everything they'd been through together, after all they'd done, she would not see Ron confined to a bed for the rest of his life. She could not. Somehow, she would find Selwyn and make him lift the curse, and then she would see that he paid for _all_ the crimes he had committed.

Giving up just wasn't an option.

* * *

AN: Thanks for the reviews : )


	4. Breaking and Entering

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**4. Breaking and Entering**

Sleep would evade him that night, he knew it.

The point was, he could hardly believe what he'd done. Granger left, and he stood stock still in the middle of his living room, wondering if he might have imagined the previous hour. What had he agreed to? He sat down and leant forward with a loud groan of frustration, putting his head into his hands. He clenched his teeth and ran his hands through his hair, clutching the roots tightly for a moment. He did not have the energy to become embroiled in any problem of Hermione Granger's.

He sprang to his feet and stepped restlessly between the mantelpiece, the bookcase, and the settee, and wondered at what on earth he'd done. Why had he done it? If only, _if only _he hadn't gone to Gringotts' that morning. And _why_ had he had the awful misfortune to not only encounter Granger, but to remove two of her fingers, as well?

He felt uneasy about what she aimed to do. He'd been responsible for many things in the past, but he would not be responsible for her running off into uncharted territory. He regretted, already, saying he would help her.

He'd thought at the time that, maybe, Hermione Granger's problem was to be about Potter… but no…

If he were honest with himself, that was why he'd finally given in with regard to speaking with her. Protecting Potter—clearly it was a deplorable habit he was going to have to rid himself of. Quickly. He didn't owe the brat anything anymore.

What could he do? He could hardly encourage her to chase after a known Death Eater in good conscience. His conscience was heavy enough as it was. He would have nothing to do with any of it. He'd made a mistake in allowing her to have the opportunity to question him as she had.

He could quite easily say he did not give one care as to what the future held for Ronald Weasley. So he was cursed, he supposed it was regrettable, but it was nothing to do with him. He could understand her need to resolve the issue, but it was just her method. It was Gryffindor behaviour at its most predictable, and possibly its most foolhardy, too. He'd had his fill of Gryffindors, and then some.

He did not care what the future held for Granger, either, but Selwyn would have no compunction about dispatching her if their paths crossed. And he had his doubts about Potter's involvement—she'd seemed cagey when talking about him. He was prepared to bet money that he would not show up with her for their second meeting. And if Potter did have nothing to do with this, then Severus knew he would receive the blame for not stopping Granger. That's what would happen—he knew it. Her visit to him would be found out, and then he'd be accused of not acting responsibly, irrespective of the fact that Granger was a fully independent being. He was very nearly always the accused, and for once, he was mightily sick of it.

And that night, as expected, he was not able to manage any sleep. For the most part, he lay upon the settee with an arm over his eyes, fervently trying to recall a time when life—_his_ life—had not been such a burden, a completely tiring burden. It had always been the same—he could never remember such a time. Thus, he concluded there couldn't have ever been one, and as far as he could see, there never would be, either.

In turn, such maudlin self-pity, such pointless reflection, and the fact that it was _he_ thinking such thoughts, disgusted him to the core. Eventually, when he could stand his thoughts no longer, he more or less spent the remainder of the night, staring into the embers of his fire, waiting for her knock on the door.

She arrived on his doorstep, perhaps, unsociably early, but he couldn't summon the energy for affront. Even on good nights, he rarely slept all the night through. He wasn't one who valued sleep, even though he seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time feeling like he needed it. Having said that, the early winter mornings were dark and cold, and only added to his complete irritation at what he'd set in motion.

Neither was he surprised at her hastiness—she was obviously convinced—deluded—that she could trace a missing Death Eater who had no wish to be found.

Dawn was beginning to slowly steal across the sky when he opened his door. She looked at him faintly apologetically.

'I hope I did not wake you—I know it's early, but I couldn't wait…'

He stood aside without a word. Curtains twitched in the window opposite, but he paid the occurrence no heed. He could not give a shit about his neighbours. They could think what they liked. Shutting the door, he moved down the passage, tugging at his black jumper against the chill of the outside that had followed him inside. Granger stood in the middle of his living room looking far more wary than she had the previous day. Indeed, as he looked at her, there was the certain deference visible in her posture that he'd been used to seeing as her teacher.

'I should like to say, sir, that I'm sorry if I was a bit… hard-headed yesterday…'

He felt like snorting with derision. This was typical Granger—finally remembering who he was and probably baulking at the fact that she'd barged into her former teacher's privacy without consideration or care. He supposed the one thing he could always say about her was that she had respected her teachers, but time had gone on too long to fall back into those ways. His teaching days were long gone. Respect meant very little to him now.

She glanced unobtrusively around his dark little sitting room. He pulled open the curtains to let in a weak gleam of light, and fiddled with the net that hung over the window, before turning and folding his arms across his chest.

He was quite positive that no one else really did know of what she was up to, apart from himself. Well, it only added to his resolve for what he was about to say.

'Your visit has been wasted, I'm afraid. I shall not be helping you in this matter, Miss Granger.' He turned away from her and busied himself with stoking the fire. He was anticipating an indignant outburst, but it never came. He glanced briefly over his shoulder.

She was staring at the floor, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

He straightened and just looked at her silently. Maybe she'd expected his change of heart.

'Why?' she asked finally, in a quiet voice.

He lifted his shoulders flippantly to hide his uncertainty over her reaction. 'I cannot, in good conscience, encourage you in this.'

It was the truth—a little more than perhaps he would like to reveal, but it was probably too late in the day to deny that he had a conscience. Those days were long gone, too, thanks to Potter.

She sighed and sat down, rubbing a hand over her face.

'I'd advise you to drop the issue, Miss Granger. If the Aurors cannot track him down, what on earth makes you think _you_ can?'

She removed her hand and looked up at him helplessly. 'But what else is there? What else can I do?'

'I don't know,' he admitted.

'Then I must do this, with or without your input.' Her expression was one of complete seriousness. She stood up. 'I _am_ sorry to have bothered you. You don't owe… Let's just say you've done enough for me, for Ron…' She smiled awkwardly, and it was a weak smile.

Her words did not ease his mind. He knew it was not really about owing anyone anything. He had information on Selwyn and she needed it. She needed it for the continued existence of her friend. And maybe Weasley was more than just her friend, he didn't know. But, was it wrong for him to deny her his assistance, even though his reasons for doing so were not entirely selfish? He did not wish to see her on the wrong side of Selwyn. And, did Ronald Weasley deserve to spend the rest of his life confined to a hospital bed? No. He couldn't blame her for wanting to try.

'What, pray, do you expect to discover that the Aurors have not?'

It was useless—she would not be made to see the folly of her quest, not yet, anyway. Her eyes became suddenly alert, as if she had detected the shift in his thoughts.

'Rounding up Death Eaters is a pressing obligation for the Aurors, and while they've been successful some of the time, they have relied upon sightings by the public, usually mistaken sightings, and certain incidents—not a detailed examinations of the facts; of establishing a trail. Regardless of whether Selwyn has gone to ground, there _will_ be a trail, however faint.' She shrugged. 'There has to be.'

Privately, he rather agreed that there was a trail to be picked up. He'd known Selwyn to be one of the more competent Death Eaters, but he was not above making the odd mistake. And if anyone could pick up that trail, he had no doubt Hermione Granger could, but following it was a completely different matter.

Severus took a step towards her and looked at her sharply. 'Potter does not know you are here.'

It wasn't a question. He knew it.

Her expression flickered momentarily, and then her gaze dropped downwards in confirmation. That is what he'd considered during his late night meditations. He knew Potter—knew how his mind worked, whether he liked it or not, and Potter would not let his friend traipse after a dangerous Death Eater, alone, while his other friend lay comatose.

'No one does,' she admitted reluctantly.

He grimaced. 'I shall not help you unless you inform Potter first.'

He would shift the responsibility onto Potter.

She shook her head slowly. 'Harry will stop me from doing this.'

'Maybe you should consider that, for once, he speaks sense.'

'You know where the Selwyns' lived, don't you?' she asked, entirely changing the subject.

He frowned.

'Look, sir, I just want to have a look around his house. It's deserted now—no one will ever know that I was there. If I find nothing, and I admit it is likely, then I shall drop the whole thing.'

'Breaking and entering is a crime punishable in Azkaban.'

'I know.'

She clasped her hands together and there was something tentative in her stance. '_You_ know of my intentions.'

'I'm sorry?'

'You're concerned that someone should be informed of my intentions, well, _you_ know.'

'Miss Granger, that is precisely the type of responsibility I wish to avoid!'

'Then, why don't you come with me?'

'I think not!' Merlin, he needed to get rid of her immediately.

She held out her hands entreatingly.'It would be easier if you just took me to the house. The quicker I get there, the quicker I'll be able to determine if this is all just a waste of time.'

Severus said nothing, content to just marvel at her audacity.

'Please, sir. Consider it so that I will owe you a favour in return.'

He almost laughed. What on earth could he ever need from her? Still, perhaps it was injudicious of him to dismiss such an opportunity, even if it was Granger. It was always prudent to be speculative in such matters. He could very well find himself in need of assistance in the future. It was perhaps worth taking into consideration.

He did indeed know where Selwyn had lived. It was actually in the middle of nowhere—it was possible she could get in and no one was likely to witness it. And, really, the odds were she would not find anything that the Aurors had not already examined, or pointed to Selwyn's whereabouts.

It was perhaps easier to just give in at this juncture.

'You bother me no more after this, Miss Granger,' he warned. He was not naïve enough to think that his words would be the end of the matter, especially if she _did_ find something at the Selwyn house. For his own part, he was convinced she would not. It was unlikely Selwyn had even stepped foot inside the house since the war. Though, there had been that apparent sighting in Cumbria she'd mentioned…

No matter, he had an idea as to what he would do to put a lid on his own involvement and her would-be detective. Perhaps he should enact it now, before traipsing off to trespass on private property, but he would prefer that she come to the conclusion that she was out of her depth on her own. It would be far easier for her to come to terms with the prospect that she might actually be helpless in the matter of her friend, if she did.

Severus Summoned a long, black Muggle coat and shrugged it on, buttoning it up and turning up the collar in preparation for the chill outside. A scarf; he should probably put a scarf on, he decided. He held out his hand and, from somewhere, a length of grey wool appeared. Winding it around his neck, he felt himself pause, seizing tightly on the ends of the scarf. He was getting himself in deeper than he ought. He stared out of the window contemplatively. How could he just abandon his routine, just like that? He never went out for anything less than a necessity. And this, this wasn't a necessity. This shouldn't be anything to do with him…

'Sir?'

He released his scarf and turned around to face the source of his current problems.

'Ready?'

He nodded stiffly.

'My, ah, fingers are better,' she said, lifting them up and smiling ruefully.

He'd completely forgotten they'd even been injured. His mind could be so… jumbled at times. He mentally shook himself. Now wasn't the time to reflect on his mental state.

'To Cumbria, then.' He held out his arm reluctantly.

'_Cumbria_? I knew it! He was sighted there only _two_ months ago!'

'So you say…' He'd take such a supposed incident with a generous pinch of salt. He resisted the urge to huff. At least if all went well this escapade would all be over by the end of the day, and he would have quiet once more. 'I am not going to give you the precise location.'

He saw her jaw clench, but she did not argue the point.

He Disapparated and they appeared on the edge of a field, shielded by a tall hedgerow. Severus lifted open a nearby gate, and they passed through the hedgerow. In front of them stood a fairly large detached house. He'd been there only once before, for a dinner party, of all things. Dumbledore had made him go.

'The Selwyns' are a Pureblood family. They avoided outright association with anything Dark for many years, though they privately subscribed to the usual ideals, namely Pureblood superiority. Horatio Selwyn was only recruited during the Dark Lord's second reign. A brute of a man, he did not take it kindly when his wife and only child were killed by Muggles. That is how he tells it, but it was actually a railway accident.'

'Oh, I did not know that.'

'Don't feel sorry for him, Miss Granger. I assure you he got his vengeance—repeatedly. He was_, is,_ a brute of a man; some might say his wife and child had a lucky escape.'

He did not consider that he was over-egging the pudding in order to warn her off; he spoke only the truth. He knew Selwyn would not hesitate about doing away with her if she got in his way.

They stood still for several moments, Severus sweeping his gaze purposefully across the scene before him. His companion, however, was not so patient. She started stepping forward; he flung out a warning arm and sighed impatiently.

'A moment, if you please, Miss Granger. One cannot just waltz up to the front door as one pleases.'

'The house is empty.'

'That's as may be, but you do not know that the Aurors are not watching—have not set up wards to detect presences that ought not to be here.'

She looked away and nodded sharply in acknowledgement.

'What wards can you detect?' he asked. She could do all the grunt-work. He was there to merely observe.

She had her wand out and her eyes closed. 'I can feel detection spells, but I think they're keyed only to Selwyn. There's an anti-Apparition ward on the house.'

He nodded. 'I suppose the Aurors cannot be running about over every little intrusion. Let us proceed then.'

He let her take the lead as they traversed through the field, which was already starting to appear overgrown—the grass was quite high. It swished around them in the strong wind. The sun was illuminating the sky a little stronger now, and he glanced around again, looking for any signs of life. As far as he could see, there were none. But it was so open. He'd never been of an agoraphobic turn, but right then, he felt too exposed—too visible. It made him want to shiver.

He glared angrily at the bushy head in front of him. But it was he who was stupid.

Stupid, _stupid_ man! He should never have agreed to this. He was quite sure that normally he would not have done. He'd gone about it in all the wrong way. What had happened to his wits? He feared he'd misplaced them months ago—they'd stagnated along with the rest of him.

The came to the gravel pathway leading to the house, and that, too, was beginning to be spotted with weeds. Severus noted that the gravel seemed rather disturbed for a house that had supposedly lain empty for six months, but then with Aurors tramping about the place, it was perhaps unsurprising.

Granger stepped up to a window and peered inside.

'Expecting to see him sitting in there supping a cup of tea, are we?'

She didn't give much sign of a reaction, apart from a little frown. Even to his own ears the jibe had sounded half-hearted. He was out of practice, greatly so.

Pushing past him, she moved around the back of the house. 'There's a Locking charm on the door,' she observed, trying the handle as she removed her wand from within her sleeve. 'Hang on…' she commented ponderingly.

Severus crossed over to her. She was running her hand over a the partially splintered doorframe.

'Looks like the door has been kicked in at some point.'

He nodded. 'Probably a case of too many Aurors watching too many Muggle police programmes. The Locking charm has been replaced, after all. Can you undo the charm?'

'I don't know…'

It took her a few minutes or so, but eventually, the door did click open. Inside, they stood in the kitchen.

'Where do you suggest we start?'

_'We_, Miss Granger? I'm merely sight-seeing.'

Her jaw tightened. 'Was there a study, or office, here, that you know of?'

'Bottom of the hallway. I shall check the kitchen.'

The look on her face seemed to ask, 'What on earth do you expect to find in the kitchen?' But she disappeared out of the room without comment.

Once she'd gone, Severus pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table. He didn't feel right here, and it wasn't his conscience pricking over trespassing in someone else's home. Something bothered him, however, and he couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe his lack of sleep was catching up with him already. Or, was it? He spent most days feeling tired, after all.

He produced his wand and laid it on the table. He felt uncomfortable. The scars on his neck began to throb intermittently, as if in agreement with him. He drew his hand up to rub them through the wool of his scarf. He hadn't liked Selwyn—well, he hadn't liked any of the Death Eater's, in fact. But Selwyn had been no hired thug like some of the others had been. Conceited, arrogant, and completely cold, he'd had resources, and importantly, a position within the Ministry.

It occurred to him, then, that he should have enquired of Granger as to who else of the Death Eaters had evaded capture. That might give them some help—but no, after today, there would be an end to the matter, for his part, at least.

He swiped a hand across his brow and clenched his wand tightly in his fist. He probably shouldn't let her wander around the house alone. Sucking in a deep breath, he got to his feet. He found her in the study with a notebook in hand, scribbling down something with a quill—her 'observations,' no doubt. She returned the notebook to a pocket, and continued rifling through a writing bureau.

'Did you make this mess, or was it already like this?'

She glanced up briefly. 'No—clearly, the Aurors have all the subtlety of a herd of elephants.'

He noticed then, that she was wearing black leather gloves, and somewhere deep inside him, he felt amused.

'Aurors have not taken to forensic science as our Muggle cousins have. I don't think you need to worry about leaving your fingerprints behind.'

She carried on rummaging. 'Perhaps not, but I thought it might be prudent, nevertheless.' She reached inside her pocket. 'Here, I brought some for you, as well.'

He simply stared. She'd come prepared; well, that was interesting. He raised a sceptical eyebrow at her.

'It was presumptuous of me, I know, but I prepare for all eventualities.'

He snatched the gloves off her and stuffed his hands into them. Ridiculous girl, she was. He walked around the room and sat down at a desk facing a window. He picked up a photograph of Selwyn standing, shaking hands vigorously, with Cornelius Fudge in the Atrium. He shook his head. What a two-faced sycophantic bastard. He pushed the picture over, so that it lay face down. Then he picked it back up again. He touched the tip of his wand to the photograph, and after a moment, an object materialised in the air. He placed it into his coat pocket. Why he was doing such a thing, he didn't know, but perhaps _he_ should prepare for all eventualities, too.

He lifted his eyes slowly to look outside. There was still no sign of life, but something niggled at the back of his mind as he scanned the gardens outside.

'Shall we move on, sir?'

He looked at her and shrugged.

They moved from room to room, but did not find anything that seemed suggestive. There was nothing that indicated where Selwyn might escape to. They looked through old bills, letters, photographs, objects, possessions, but it was useless, as he'd anticipated it to be. She didn't even _know_ what she was looking for.

He hoped, then, that it would be easy. She would find nothing, and he could be back to Spinner's End and never hear one more word about it.

But, he should have known it was not to be. Her stroke of luck occurred when she discovered the Selwyn family tree on a wall in the library, quickly finding Horatio near the bottom. 'His mother and father are gone,' she mused aloud, tracing a finger along the tree. 'Look, he had an elder brother who died aged only three years old—Arthur Selwyn.'

Severus merely stood by, not particularly interested. Clearly, the Pureblood rot had begun settling in for generations.

'But look at this! He has an uncle, on his mother's side, a John Mortimer, still alive. In fact, he's the only close relative he has left. This has to be it! There was an address book downstairs, I'm sure. I bet we can find out where the uncle lives.'

She was talking a mile a minute and her face was triumphant. She turned in the direction of the landing, no doubt intending to shoot off immediately after the address book. But he had to act fast, and gritting his teeth, Severus quickly placed himself between her and the door.

'Stop, Miss Granger.'

'I'm sorry?'

'You simply cannot go gallivanting across the country harassing people, however much you appear to be practised at it. Do you know the first thing about John Mortimer? What makes you think he is likely to give you information on the whereabouts of his nephew?'

'I can try,' she said flatly.

'No, you can't.'

She stepped towards him. 'I can't?'

'You can't.' It was time to inform her of exactly where she stood. 'I cannot allow it. I could inform the Aurors of your intentions, you know.'

Her eyes flashed with pique. 'What could they do? It's a free country; I can go where I please, and if I happen to discover a relative of Selwyn's while I'm there, well, that's Providence for you, isn't it?'

'They could make it difficult for you, Miss Granger, believe me. They will not want some young upstart running around after them, meddling, potentially damaging their already fragile reputation. Why, even Mr Mortimer himself might report you to the Aurors.'

Her eyes closed in frustration.

'_Why_ are you doing this? Why won't you let me go on as I like?' There was a pleading look upon her face. 'You are not my teacher anymore that you can tell me what to do. In fact, you hold no position of authority over me. We are as good as nothing to each other—you are _not_ responsible for me or my actions. I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, it is not needed.'

'You should have thought of this before you roped me in, though, shouldn't you?'

She sighed. 'Look, sir. I have the first link here. The uncle—Selwyn's only relative in the country that we know of! Providing that there has never been some huge falling out, don't you think it highly likely that he might have gone to his uncle for help? And take a look around, will you? It's _obvious_ Selwyn has been back here! Where the devil are the portraits, hmm? See there, that space where clearly a painting used to hang? There are several such spaces around the house, and yet, there are Muggle-style paintings still hanging. Conclusion, then; Selwyn did not want to risk the possibility of his portraits blabbing to the Aurors! This is a Pureblood household. Where's the house-elf? He had one, I assume?'

Severus nodded reluctantly. Merlin, he hadn't even considered the possibility of the elf when entering the house.

'See. So where is the elf? I've garnered as much information as I can from the Aurors and what little has been leaked to the Press. There's never been any mention of an elf. Clearly, Selwyn came back here and removed anything incriminating before the Aurors even got off their lazy backsides and decided to investigate!'

She was breathing quickly and was flushed with anger. Then, she reached for her sleeve and removed her wand. He saw the movement—knew what it meant before he even saw her wand, but he didn't move. He stood there and simply let her draw her wand between them. Why was he motionless? Had he really, _finally_, lost it? A voice in his head screamed at him to react, to at least grasp his own wand.

'I can't let you stop me, Professor Snape. I care about Ron too much. Please, stand aside, or…'

'Or… _what_?'

He saw the flicker in her eyes. This was Hermione Granger. She may have attacked him at one point in the past, but she would not do so now. He knew it from the look on her face. She didn't have a clue what to do.

'I could _Obliv_—'

'No, I don't think so, Miss Granger.' He stepped forward and, in a flash, snatched her wand out of her grip. She protested loudly in surprise, highly indignant.

'How dare you—'

He moved around her and sent one sharp jab to her back with her wand and nodded towards the door. 'Get downstairs you silly girl.'

Her cheeks flushed an angry, embarrassed red, but she capitulated and made for the staircase.

Severus indicated for her to go into the kitchen. 'Sit,' he demanded.

She sat at the table with a face like thunder. 'What now, then?'

'You will remain quiet while I think.' He sat down opposite her and placed her wand on the table. 'You will not touch it until I say so.'

She scoffed incredulously and immediately leant forward to grab it.

He was too quick for her, however, and had the wand in his pocket.

She scowled deeply. `'Give me my wand.'

'I won't tell you again—quiet.'

He sat there for many moments, outwardly still, but his mind was a veritable tumult of thoughts. There was one that continually rose above all else, though—that she was right. Selwyn, or someone, at least, had clearly been back to the house. When, and for how many times, well, that remained to be uncovered. The signs, so far, did seem to suggest that Selwyn had remained in the country. And if he were in her shoes, he couldn't deny it, he would want to do the same as her.

'I am not going to take the blame for you coming to a sticky end, Miss Granger. You shall have to tell all to Potter before proceeding. Beyond that, well, I shall leave you to it.'

She fixed him with a surveying stare, as if weighing up her options.

'Come with me to see the uncle.'

He shook his head vehemently, a little surprised at her request, nonetheless.

'Harry will not allow me to do this alone. And if Molly finds out…'

'She might react like me?'

'Come with me, please. I will tell Harry.'

Severus sighed inwardly. What if he did help her? It was not as though he had any duties preventing him from doing so. And as much as he longed for the silence of his house, he knew it was only because he was used to it. Time was, he'd liked the company of others. All that awaited him at Spinner's End was… himself, and most days he was heartily sick of himself. It was something he couldn't get away from. Diverting his mind, however temporarily, might be a blessed relief.

To help her—to help Weasley, was the right thing to do, wasn't it? In the past, in his bleaker moments of indecision, his thoughts would turn inexorably towards the bane of his existence, or the one redeeming feature of it—depending on how you looked at it—and he would ask himself, 'What would Lily do? What would she want me to do?' It was typically him that he should use a dead woman for a moral guide, but there it was. He didn't even have to think about it in this instance. She would expect him to help Granger.

And to see Selwyn get his comeuppance, well, he wouldn't mind that opportunity. He despised the man—despised them all. He could recall any number of Death Eater meetings where he'd _itched_ to stand up and curse the lot of them—one by one, into nothingness. Curse them for their unending stupidity, their ignorance, and their complete inhumanity, and then curse himself for ever having seen eye-to-eye with them.

They should _all_ pay—just like he was.

'Go and get the address.'

He clenched his fists under the table as his neck pulsed hotly. His judgement… _Was_ this right?

'I beg your pardon?'

'I said, Miss Granger, go and get the address for Mr John Mortimer.'

She sprang instantly from her chair and scuttled off to the study. Severus got to his feet. Possibly, he was making a huge mistake. Did he not have _more_ responsibility now that he was planning on going with her? And what use was he going to be to her? He was hardly functioning on all cylinders. He could barely take care of himself, let alone have the wherewithal to take on a ruthless Death Eater. But perhaps he was getting ahead of himself. That they would stumble across Selwyn himself, still seemed rather unlikely.

Granger returned with a folded up piece of parchment. 'It says 'Six Bells cottage, Berwick-upon-Tweed, Northumberland.'

He nodded and thrust her wand towards her. 'Come, we should not linger here. Let it be known, Miss Granger, that I shall be saving a favour to be cashed in at a later date. Are we clear?'

She hesitated; he could see it in the way she took back her wand. Nevertheless, she looked him in the eye. 'Certainly, Professor.'

He wondered, as they travelled beyond the wards, whether she would live to regret it.

She very well might, he realised.

And, then again, so might he.

* * *

AN: Thanks for reading, and for the comments—much appreciated.


	5. Berwick upon Tweed

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**5. Berwick-upon-Tweed**

Hermione often wondered if Ron could hear what they were saying when they spoke to him. The Healers didn't know; although, she suspected they secretly leant towards 'no'. For her own part, Hermione wasn't sure what possibility was worse—that he was completely unaware, or that he was aware but unable to make any response. Regardless, she spoke to him all the times that she visited. It had been odd at first, talking to someone who could not give any sign of a reaction. But she'd got used to it, eventually. She might sit there reading passages from _Quidditch Through the Ages_, or the Chudley Cannons newsletter, or simply chatter on about her day, and she felt sure she could predict some of the responses he might have come out with, had he been awake.

'You're mental, Hermione,' always featured high up there.

It was certainly not the same as hearing it come from him, however, and she hoped, as she always did, that soon he _would_ be able to tell her that she was mental.

Today, she squeezed his hand a little tighter and leant forward more eagerly as she spoke.

'I told you I was going to find him for you, Ron, and I've already made a start. You're not going to believe this, but Professor _Snape_ is going to help me. Admittedly, I'm unsure as to just what his help constitutes, but we'll see.'

She decided not to tell Ron that Snape had made it clear she would owe him one. Really, she didn't want to imagine what that would favour might eventually entail. Who knew with him?

'He's already taken me to Selwyn's house, and we've found one of his relatives to speak to. To be honest, I'm glad to have someone else with me, even if being around the man is a little bit awkward, sometimes.'

Hermione paused to reflect. There was something inherently… _weird_ about her whole experience with him so far. Other than the issue of Selwyn, they'd never talked about anything else, and yet, she felt that there was often some elephant in the room, something that was being left unsaid. Was it just a case of her imagining things? No, there was definitely _something_. And his behaviour… she'd never seen anyone appear so disconnected at times. His gaunt, stubbly face popped into her mind and she frowned. There was something not quite right. Not only because it seemed wrong, somehow, to see him in a Muggle jumper, and his hair to be not as she remembered, but something in his manner, too. She was so used to seeing him as one thing, to see him as another was oddly unsettling.

'He's a shadow of his former self,' she murmured quietly, as if the thought had only just occurred to her, but the evidence had been right before her eyes from the off. It all came down to one thing, in the end—the war and Voldemort. But he would not want her to bring attention to it. Anyone could see that he did not want people prying into his personal matters, and, really, what could she do? What could _she_ possibly say that would leave any impression with him? He would tell her it's not her place to concern herself in his affairs, and he would be right.

She sighed. 'There's such a lot left to still sort out, Ron. Such a lot.'

She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest for a moment. There was a lot left to sort out between them, too. In the few days between Voldemort's demise and his hospitalisation, there hadn't been time for anything. But time would come, she hoped...

'Well, I've told Harry some of what I'm up to, and he worries of course, but you know what he's like. He's promised not to tell your mother yet, so that's all right, as I'm sure she will have a few things to say to me about it! Anyway, I should be back tomorrow to see you, and I'll tell you how I got on then.'

Hermione stood up, smoothed his hair back from his forehead and then left. She was off to 'Spinner's End.' She kept meaning to find out precisely where that was. From the little she had seen, she would point to it being in a town in the Midlands, perhaps, or maybe farther north.

She was wary about knocking on his door again. He'd had a couple of days to ruminate on the situation this time. Would he have changed his mind again? She wasn't even sure what it was that had inspired him to agree to help her in the first place. Mostly, he'd seemed like he couldn't give a toss about anything, but something must have struck a chord within him. Maybe, when she became more confident around him, she might ask him. Though, she wouldn't maintain high expectations of getting a comprehensive answer.

He opened the door without a word and let her enter. She only quirked the corner of her mouth in greeting—pleasantries were clearly wasted upon him. She sat down in an armchair and slowly removed her gloves, ears pricked for the expected speech proclaiming he would no longer offer his assistance.

It never came.

He sat in a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace without comment. Still, judging from his expression, he was not particularly happy. She'd never known someone able to look so preoccupied when doing nothing but sitting there silently.

She cleared her throat a little uncomfortably. 'I've, ah, sorted out the Portkey to take us to Northumberland.'

Hermione removed a plastic wrapper from within her pocket and placed it on the arm of her chair.

'Very well,' he said, looking markedly unenthused.

She fought not to sigh resignedly in response. 'I've done some research on the Mortimers—there's not much to say, really. That old _Who's Who _of Pureblood families you gave me pointed to them being one of the lesser lines, because of their lack of wealth and resources, mostly. It may be possible to suggest from that, then, that the match between Eliza Mortimer and Selwyn's father was, for them, a successful one.'

He wasn't even bothering to look at her as she spoke. Hermione clasped her hands together in her lap, trying not to feel perturbed.

'Um, John Mortimer, is ninety-eight years old, lives alone, and is the last of the Mortimer line, having never had children…' She trailed off, having exhausted all her pitiful knowledge on the subject.

He stirred in his chair, deigning to glance at her briefly. 'It is suggestive that he is the last of the Mortimer line.'

'Oh?'

'Indeed. We may infer that he is not one who is particularly bothered with Pureblood ideology. No self-respecting Pureblood would allow his family lineage to die out, not if he could help it, anyway.'

'So you think it is possible that he does not share the same views as his nephew?'

'Perhaps. More important, however, is our pretext for seeking him out in the first place. Are we to fabricate one? Do we go disguised?'

He raised an eyebrow as if to say, 'I hope you've thought about this!' It also suddenly threw her back to his classroom when he used to ask her for her homework, looking as if he had been hoping to catch her out for not doing it.

'I've considered a few scenarios. One, we could pretend to be working officially on the investigation. However, that way is fraught with pitfalls—the biggest one being that the Ministry could find out. It is also likely that he will recognise us, but even if we were disguised, we have no official knowledge of the investigation, and no doubt he would smell a rat, eventually. I'm sure the Aurors will have interviewed him at some point.'

'One would _hope_ the Aurors did have the wisdom to take such a course of action.'

'Quite. We could create a different reason for wanting locate Selwyn. Perhaps he owes us money or something…'

Snape narrowed his eyes.

'But, really, I think it best to just go as we are.'

'That he will recognise us is almost a given. Should he take offence at our visit, he would be able to report us to the Aurors.'

Hermione frowned. 'It is certainly a risk, but, I think, one worth taking. It may even work in our favour.'

Snape snorted. 'We know nothing of Mortimer's biases or prejudices—not really. We may be the last people he wants to see.'

She suddenly felt a palpable tension materialise in the small room and wondered if he was considering that it was _he_ who would be the last person Mortimer would want to see. She didn't think she'd imagined the edge of bitterness in his voice. Had people been unfavourable towards him after the fall of Voldemort? The general consensus towards him, she'd imagined, had been positive, but then, what did she know? She wasn't living his life.

'Still, do you not think the truth is best? I'm sure that most people would be understanding to our purpose and could not really take too much offence, as long as we go about it courteously, of course.'

He made a flat sound of agreement. The only noise then was the crackling of the fire and Hermione fidgeted in the silence.

'Well, I suppose we might as well go, then.'

He got to his feet without a word. As he was tugging on his overcoat, she could have sworn she saw him stifle a yawn, despite him having his back to her. It was only half-past ten in the morning… but she supposed he did not look like a man who got much sleep. She chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully, beginning to see that there were maybe pieces to a different puzzle here, but she had to abandon her musings when she realised he was looking at her expectantly.

She cleared her throat and stood, gathering her gloves to her. She removed her wand and tapped the plastic wrapper.

'Ready?'

They both touched the Portkey, and some moments later, they'd been transported to the edge of the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whereupon Hermione withdrew a small Muggle road map from inside her pocket.

'The house is a short walk out of the town centre—this way.' She pointed west, stuffing the map back into her pocket.

Her companion only nodded in acknowledgement, and they set off. They walked at a modest pace, and Hermione was grateful that he didn't appear to be in any hurry. Eager as she was get on Selwyn's trail, she was feeling a bit nervous about the impending visit with the uncle. There was so much that could go wrong. He could slam the door in their faces, and they would be powerless to do anything about it. He could report them to the Aurors. He may not even be at home—that, certainly, would be a let-down.

She ran through her speech in her head. She had planned how she would begin her appeal for information. He was a ninety-eight year old man—she did not want to come across as threatening, but, then again, turning up with Severus Snape, of all people, could perhaps come across as an intimidation tactic. She glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye. Definitely intimidating. At least he didn't have those robes on that he wore at Hogwarts—that coat he had on could only flare out so much, after all.

The wind blew his hair back from his face and she could see the deep frown on it. His eyes seemed to dart around, assessing everything from passers-by, to the cars on the road, to the buildings around them. What his purpose was, she didn't know, but it was a subtle change in him, she noticed, compared to his behaviour in his own environment. He looked a little more on edge. She'd noticed it at Selwyn's house too. It was maybe, not unexpected, in the circumstances, but she couldn't help but think that he was a man who was not normally prone to edginess. She'd bear her observation in mind, along with the many others she had been making about him recently.

Awful as perhaps it sounded, she felt she was glad that his presence might be a little off-putting. Not many people, if any, could walk all over him and get away with it. Still, she hoped he would show some patience with Mortimer; though she wouldn't be surprised if he ended up saying not a word at all. But, at least it would be another pair of ears and eyes, and maybe he would see something that she might have otherwise missed on her own.

The road became less busy as they took a turning that lead them into a residential area.

'There is a lane leading to the house at the end of this street, I believe.'

She was not used to associating with someone so quiet, familiar, as she was, with the bickering between Harry, Ron and herself. It unnerved her slightly, and it was a bit of a task for her to also keep silent.

To her relief, they soon came upon a gate with the name 'Six Bells cottage' attached to it. Hermione pushed it open and moved up the path to the front of the small house.

'Please be in, please be in,' she muttered to herself, unable to take any time to appreciate the colourful flowerpots and hanging baskets that adorned the façade of the house. Her anticipation building, it could have been a wooden shack for all she noticed.

Hermione raised a hand to the knocker and sent a small encouraging smile to Snape standing nearby. Why she'd bothered, she didn't know. He just looked at her blankly.

Eventually, she heard the sound of movement from within the house and she breathed deeply. A short, white-haired man appeared as the door opened. He peered up over the glasses perched on the end of his nose, glancing between the both of them with some surprise.

'Mr. John Mortimer, I presume?' asked Hermione politely.

He nodded slowly. 'Well, bless me,' he began. 'No need to enquire of your names.' She noticed his eyes become a shade wary. 'Nor to enquire as to your business, I fancy.'

'We are sorry to intrude, but it _is_ about your nephew, Horatio Selwyn, Mr Mortimer.'

His expression darkened momentarily, but then his mouth lifted slightly and he stood aside. 'Well, you may come in, my dear.' He motioned a hand inside. 'You too, sir.'

'Thank you, very much,' replied Hermione, stepping over the threshold. She felt Snape follow her, but he made no comment to Mortimer as he passed. She fought not to wince—couldn't he at least be perfunctorily civil?

The old man lead them into a sitting room and bade them sit down.

'You are friends with that young man my… _nephew_ has injured. Is that correct?'

Hermione nodded.

Mortimer removed his glasses and sighed heavily. He sank into an armchair and shook his head. 'I can only say how sorry I am about the awful business, Miss Granger.' He looked at her sadly. 'Indeed, for that and more.'

Hermione was suddenly rather alarmed to see the glassy sheen form in the old man's eyes and she rushed to appease him. 'Please, Mr Mortimer, you don't have to apologise for behaviour that was not your own.'

'Thank you, my dear. But how may I be of help to you?'

'As you may know, the Aurors have put the investigation into your nephew's disappearance on hold. I'm just trying to do all that I can to help my friend.'

'A noble cause, Miss Granger. And Mr Snape…?'

'Has been, ah, good enough to assist me in the matter.' Hermione looked at the man in question. He was openly studying Mortimer.

Mortimer nodded. 'You want any information I can give you on Horatio?'

'If you are willing to provide it.'

He nodded again. 'I say quite wholeheartedly that I have never condoned my nephew's behaviour, Miss Granger. In fact, it thoroughly shames me to be even associated with him.'

Hermione tried to detect any sign that he was lying, but, to her at least, he seemed in earnest.

'I shall talk to you, but I fear that I will not have anything of use to you. Shall I arrange us some tea, first?'

'Oh, that would be lovely.'

In the chair next to her, she sensed Snape shift. Inwardly she groaned. She'd obviously just done something he didn't like.

'Just a moment, then.' Mortimer smiled and got to his feet, shuffling out of the room.

Hermione looked at Snape cautiously. 'You don't think he's gone to escape out of the window or something?'

'No; but you've given him time to recoup any advantage we had with the element of surprise. He's probably getting his story right in his head as we speak.'

She closed her eyes tiredly. 'He may not have a story to get right, you know. He seems genuine enough.'

He merely raised his eyebrows and looked away. Hermione bit her lip, frustrated, and looked away too.

Mortimer came back into the room, a floating tray of cups preceding him. He offered a plate towards her. 'Biscuit?'

'Thank you,' said Hermione, taking one.

Snape declined when it was his turn, and Hermione suddenly felt the biscuit turn to ash in her mouth. Resisting the urge to spit it back out, she chewed uncomfortably as the old man settled himself back into his chair. What if the biscuits were poisoned? Or the tea?

She chanced a glance to her left. Snape was smirking at her.

She was being ridiculous; they tasted fine. Nevertheless, she casually placed the half-eaten biscuit on her saucer. 'Mr Mortimer,' she said carefully. 'Would you mind if I asked when the last time was that you saw your nephew?'

'Certainly not, my dear. I remember it distinctly because it was at the funeral of Horatio's wife and son. Frankly, I only went out of loyalty to my dear departed sister Eliza—Horatio's mother.' A pitying expression appeared on his face. 'Must be six or seven years ago, now, I'm afraid.'

Hermione looked at her hands. 'Oh.' Merlin, what a disappointment. 'I see—you were not close?'

Mortimer shook his head negatively.

'When my sister married Horatio's father, the advantage was considered to be all on her side. We did not have the wealth and status to compare with the Selwyns'. Still, my sister had beauty—the one thing the Selwyns lacked. I did not approve of the match, Miss Granger. My sister was impressionable, quiet—she allowed her husband to distance herself from her family. The gist of a long story is, I rarely saw my sister over the years of her marriage, and likewise her son. What I will say, is that whenever I did see her, I barely recognised her. She lost her first-born, you see, to Dragon Pox—she never really recovered from it.'

He sipped his tea pensively.

'There were times when she brought Horatio here when he was very young, and then, he was just like any normal boy. But I saw him less and less when he was older. There were stories that filtered their way back to me, though. How he bullied people. How he abused his position in the Ministry. Not to mention his strong, _political_ views, shall we say. He was always clever and ruthless, Miss Granger, took after his father in that respect. The death of his wife and child _was_ tragic, but for him, it was merely an excuse for his intolerable behaviour.'

The old man appeared to be getting agitated now and he looked at Hermione, particularly, with deep regret.

'But I did not know that there such an intractable thread of evil running through him.' He blinked several times. 'I did not know the depths of depravity to which he was capable. I wonder, all the time, where it came from—what should have caused it. I assure you both, that had he the effrontery to show up on my doorstep after everything he's done, I would not have hesitated in turning my wand on him!' His voice became raised. 'I would have made him _pay_ for his wickedness and the complete shame and disgrace he has brought upon my poor sister's memory!'

He seemed almost precariously close to tears, now, and Hermione instinctively moved to the edge of her chair, leaning over to touch his hand.

'It's all right, Mr Mortimer,' said Hermione soothingly, struck by his upset. 'I'm sorry to have had to bring it up again.' The actions of one certainly had long-lasting implications for many, she thought. Snape, she noted, wasn't looking at either of them. A finger moved slowly over his mouth and he appeared absorbed in some reverie of his own. She found she wasn't sure she would like to know where his thoughts were turned to at that moment.

'Mr Mortimer,' she continued with an encouraging smile. 'You would have no idea as to where your nephew might find refuge?'

He pulled out a handkerchief from his sleeve and cleared his throat. 'No, my dear,' he admitted quietly. 'I wish I did.'

'There's nothing that strikes you as possibly significant—relevant?'

He shook his head sombrely.

'All right.' She squeezed his hand comfortingly.

He dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief, and smiled a watery smile. 'Forgive an old man—it doesn't take much to upset me these days.'

He self-consciously busied himself with loading up the cups onto the tray. Hermione helped him. She felt sympathy for him, but she also felt extremely anticlimactic. Mortimer took out his wand to Banish the tray, but the tray only rattled when he waved his wand over it.

'Damn thing,' he muttered impatiently, looking at his wand. 'Don't get old, Miss Granger, whatever you do—isn't that right, Mr Snape?'

Hermione held back an amused smile as Snape only glared in response.

'Well, ah, thank you very much for your time, Mr Mortimer,' she interceded before Snape could decide to voice any umbrage at the comment.

'You're welcome, my dear. I only wish I could have been of more assistance, but you're welcome to come back again, if you need anything more.'

Hermione smiled as genuinely as she could, getting to her feet. 'That's very kind. Goodbye, Mr Mortimer. Don't worry, we'll see ourselves out.'

'Goodbye, Miss Granger; Mr Snape.'

Snape only nodded.

They went out into the hallway and Hermione opened the door. She breathed in a deep breath of fresh air and walked with heavy steps down the path to the gate. Once into the lane, and beyond the view of the house, she paused and leant against a wooden fence.

'Well, that was a waste of time,' she commented with a loud sigh.

'Was it?' asked Snape blandly, rearranging the scarf about his neck.

Hermione raised a questioning eyebrow. 'You think he may have been lying when he talked of Selwyn with such disgust, then?'

He shrugged in that casual, patronising way he had that she was quickly beginning to find insufferable.

'On the contrary, I think he was being entirely truthful.'

She wondered if that assertion was from instinct alone, or from more subtle, magical means.

'But we are not any closer to Selwyn. We can maybe rule out that he came to his uncle for help, but that leaves us with very little—in fact, _nothing_ at all.' She'd had such a feeling that they were heading in the right direction!

'He was never going to tell us where Selwyn was, Miss Granger. Neither was he likely to tell us if he _had_ seen him since his disappearance.'

'I know, but I'd hoped he'd have more insight into his character… Something…'

'I confess myself rather taken with that charming painting of the little house by the sea.'

Had she heard him correctly? Hermione pushed herself away from the fence and folded her arms. '_I__'__m sorry_?'

'Oh—did you not see it? Hanging above the fireplace?'

He was an art connoisseur in his spare time, was he?

Hermione frowned. 'What are you—' She broke off suddenly. She _had_ noticed the painting in question and she knew now—she knew she'd seen that painting before. Very recently, actually.

She stepped into the middle of the lane, where he stood, her eyes wide. 'But, surely, that is one _hell_ of a long shot?' she asked, a note of wonder in her voice.

'That our Mr John Mortimer should have the same painting hanging in his house as in Selwyn's house? It is the _longest_ of shots, Miss Granger, but the only one we presently have.'

'But what can it mean? Should we not have asked Mortimer about it?'

Snape shook his head vehemently. 'Certainly not. Consider the facts, Miss Granger.' He began walking down the lane, so Hermione followed. 'It's a Muggle painting—it does not move. It is unremarkable in Mortimer's case, but why should the Selwyns, who have an extensive Magical art collection, retain such a, probably worthless, piece?'

'But the painting was hanging in what would have been Eliza Selwyn's bedroom—Mortimer's sister.'

'Quite so; clearly, the painting holds some significance for the both of them. What could that be? We may infer that the house in the picture is real—where they grew up? Perhaps. Another property belonging to the Mortimer family? Probably not, given their financial situation.'

Hermione's mind was whirring. 'It must be somewhere they both visited in some capacity. Probably regularly to produce such sentimentality.'

Snape nodded. '_And_, we do not know that Selwyn himself did not visit there, with his mother, maybe.'

Her step faltered and she looked at him seriously. 'You think it's possible that, providing Selwyn also has some connection to the place, he may have gone there following his escape from Hogwarts?'

There was an element of doubt on his face now. 'Well, it _is_ a credible hypothesis, at least. What would you have done in his shoes? You're on the run, wandless, you'd want to be seen by as few people as possible. You can't go home, just in case the Aurors are waiting—but you need somewhere.'

'He had to have gone somewhere_,__'_ Hermione repeated to herself. _'Somewhere_—but that's exactly it. We have no idea where that cottage is. It is also unlikely that _he_ has any ownership on the cottage as all his assets were seized by the Ministry.'

Snape nodded thoughtfully. 'Only those in his own name, mind. And, yes, it may very well be that we shall not discover the location that painting depicts. But I would hesitate drawing Mortimer's attention to the painting, just in case he _is_ in contact with his nephew—willingly or even unwillingly so.'

She hoped for the old man's sake that he had not been coerced into anything by his nephew. He'd seemed a nice enough man.

'If he is in contact, then Selwyn will know we are after him,' she observed darkly.

'A risk, indeed.'

And one that she was unsure of the potential repercussions for, at present. She would continue to hope that Mortimer had been entirely truthful about not seeing his nephew for six or more years.

'So, what now? Back to Cumbria to see the other painting?' she asked Snape.

'It is not too far to Apparate from here directly, so yes, we might as well go.'

Hermione took his proffered arm and within seconds, they were standing in the same spot as they had stood only a few days ago. The walked up to the front of the house, Hermione's thoughts centred on hoping that something would materialise from this one possible clue. It was tenuous at best, but right now, she'd take tenuous with good grace.

They were moving around the side of the house, to the door they had used previously, when Snape stopped abruptly and looked upwards.

'What's wrong, sir?' She looked up to where his gaze was directed and could see nothing. The house looked was as desolate and silent as it had been before.

'I thought I saw something move, out of the corner of my eye.'

'_In_ the house?'

He shook his head. 'No…'

A little pulse of apprehension sounded within her, but she knew that it was unlikely to be anything portentous. 'A bird, maybe…' she offered.

Snape didn't seem to accept that readily. 'I don't think we should dither, Miss Granger. Let us get in and get back out again.'

Hermione nodded and quickly undid the Locking charm on the door. Wands out, they moved swiftly through the house, up the stairs to the first floor and then up again to the second. In the bedroom, they found the painting hanging over the dressing-table.

'Do you know what? I've just had an awful thought,' said Hermione, staring at the painting. 'We think Selwyn has been back here to get rid of the speaking portraits, but why not take this one away too, if it could provide a potential clue? He must know Mortimer has one.'

Snape also stared at the painting and sighed pessimistically. 'I don't know; it seems the logical thing for him to do, but he may have simply forgotten about it, or he may not have been intending to go to the cottage at that time, who knows? Best not to over-analyse it yet, we—'

Hermione had heard the creak of the staircase, too.

They stared at each other with wide eyes for a moment before Snape motioned to the painting, whispering, 'We'll have to take it with us, but no one must know it's missing. Duplicate it, but let _us_ keep the original.'

Hermione, in quick succession, Summoned the painting towards her, charmed a replica to appear, and then levitated it back onto the wall. She shrunk the original down into the size of a postage stamp and, while Snape was occupied with peering out of the window, she stuffed it down into her bra for safekeeping.

'It's not high enough,' she heard him mutter angrily to himself, as he left the window. He stepped silently over the carpet to the doorway and peered through the small gap onto the landing.

He turned around and indicated for her to join him behind the door. 'Two men,' he whispered. 'Muggles, from what I could see.' He nudged her into the corner between the door and the wall. 'As soon as they come in, we Stun them, all right?'

Hermione nodded, clutching her wand tightly. Her heart was beating a tattoo in her chest, but she told herself to calm down. She'd been in tighter situations than this before, far tighter. The soft sound of footsteps were on the landing now, heading directly for them. She wished they would carry on going, but soon, too soon for her liking, they paused right outside their door. Hermione glanced up at Snape, but there was only a look of complete focus on his face. She braced herself.

'Mr Snape, Miss Granger, we would suggest that you put down your… _wands, _for your own benefit.'

Hermione felt herself start slightly as the unfamiliar voice travelled through the wood of the door. How on earth did they know who they were?

Her confusion soon transmuted to horror, however, when, seconds later, there was the unmistakeable clicking noise of a gun.

* * *

AN: Hope no one minds cliffhangers : )


	6. We Fought the Law

**The Match and the Spark **

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**6. We Fought the Law…**

He'd never actually seen a gun before; not up close and personal, anyway. And after surviving an attack by a giant snake, to get taken out by some Muggle contraption would have been truly ignominious, and, simply, that would never do. Not to mention there was also Miss Granger to think about. Therefore, Severus had no plans to get more closely acquainted with said contraption. But that meant heeding the warning from the unfamiliar man on the other side of the door, and he did not like being on the back foot. Not one bit.

The voice sounded again. 'Put your wands away, and I shall put _mine_ away.'

Maybe if he'd been alone, he would have taken his chances—perhaps blast the door off its hinges, surprising them enough to get in a few hexes before they could react. But he wasn't alone—his former student was currently looking up at him for guidance.

The door started opening tentatively, and he looked at Granger, reluctantly lowering his wand, and indicating that she should step back from the door with him.

'Very well,' Severus said loudly to the men outside.

'Excellent,' came the studiously breezy reply.

He still had his hand gripped on his wand. If they tried anything, well, they would come to see how fast his reflexes could be. At least, he hoped his reflexes were still quick off the mark.

The door opened fully revealing two men standing in the doorway.

'Put the gun away, Thomas,' said the elder of the two men as he stepped over the threshold. He glanced openly around the bedchamber, clearly looking for something. Severus hoped Granger had had the presence of mind to put the painting somewhere secure.

'You have the advantage of us. You know our names, but who are you?'

The elder man fixed him with a stern glance, while the other man stood silently blocking the doorway. 'I am Detective Chief Inspector Oakshott, and this, my Sergeant, Thomas. We are from the London Metropolitan Police and that is all you need to know.' Identification was briefly flashed in their direction.

Severus remained outwardly unmoved, but in reality, he was extremely puzzled as to what the Muggle police should be doing there, especially police from London. And more worryingly, he wondered why they should be aware that they were witch and wizard.

The man called Oakshott continued his casual perusal of the room. 'We were intrigued when you turned up here the first time. I had some idea of your reason for coming here, but I confess, that you should come back a second time, well, it's suggestive. If you are with-holding information pertaining to ongoing investigations, then I suggest you hand it over.' He looked between them with a hard expression.

Severus wasn't sure he could believe his ears.

'I'm sorry—are you talking about investigations into the disappearance of Horatio Selwyn?' asked Granger in some confusion.

Oakshott smiled—a wide, inherently false smile. 'I'm not sure that matters of… _Muggle_, as you patronisingly call us, national security is any of your business, Miss Granger. But it _is_ mine, and so I ask again—are you with-holding evidence?'

'What jurisdiction do you have over us?' asked Severus, narrowing his eyes. As long as they retained their wands, they could hardly be arrested; but how did this Muggle man know so much?

The Inspector looked them calculatingly. 'I'm sure your Aurors would be more than happy to oblige us when they find out what you have been up to. Trespassing; possible obstruction, yes, they'll be _most_ interested, and I'm sure many will be surprised at _you_, Miss Granger.'

'We were told the investigation into Selwyn's escape was closed. We're trying to help my friend, that is all,' said Granger calmly.

Severus felt a little jolt of surprise when Oakshott suddenly turned a speculative gaze upon him and, in a dry, suspicious voice, said, 'Really?'

Severus fought against the sense of unease he felt, but it was obvious—this man knew about him, and not just his name.

'I will only warn you once, but should you be found to obstructing our investigation again, we will be _forced_ to take action.'

'Is that a threat?' Severus asked, unable to keep an edge of contempt out of his voice.

Oakshott shrugged. 'If you choose to look at it that way, then yes, it is.' He clapped his hands together briskly. 'Now, I suggest you tell me why you have returned here.'

'Isn't it obvious?' Severus answered scornfully. 'Miss Granger insisted upon returning a second time. Our first visit proved unfruitful, and as I'm sure you can imagine, she is rather set upon helping her friend.'

Oakshott looked around the room again and Severus wondered if he would notice that dust had been disturbed around the painting they had stolen. 'Still, this shall be the last time you come to this house,' he said in a warning voice. 'Be assured, we _will_ know if you do come back, and if we can't contain you, we'll make sure your Aurors can. Now, I think it best you leave. Please have a safe journey back to, ah, Spinner's End, isn't it, Mr Snape?'

Severus instinctively made to step forward, feeling a flash of anger. His hand twitched, longing to turn his wand upon the man. A hand caught tightly onto his sleeve, and he reigned in the impulse. Oakshott looked like he wanted to smirk.

'How do you know where I live?' Severus snarled at him, removing his arm from Granger's grasp.

'We know a lot of things, Mr Snape, you might do well to remember it. Now, go.'

There was an anger coursing through him that he hadn't felt in a long while. He stared openly at Oakshott, who looked unabashedly back. There were many things he wished to do, and leave was not one of them. He wanted to thrust his wand into the man's neck and show him exactly what a threat looked like. But Thomas was watching, prepared, no doubt, to produce his firearm at a second's notice. And, there was still Granger to think about.

Oakshott's eyebrow twitched in challenge, but Severus grimly quashed the urge to react. Clenching his jaw, he moved towards the door. He stormed down the staircases as quickly as possible, uncaring that his companion was nearly running to keep up with him. He stepped out of the door, and outside, he looked about wildly. How had they got here? There was no sign of a car nearby. But as he looked eastwards, he could see that they could have easily left a vehicle on the side of the road, concealed behind one of the hedgerows.

'How did they know we were here?' he demanded of Granger when she appeared out of the house.

He'd felt it. He'd bloody well felt it the first time they'd come—the feeling of being watched. He should trust his instincts more, he realised. Maybe they were not as dormant as he'd first anticipated.

'God knows,' she replied, lifting her hands resignedly. 'I can't think how they…' She trailed off abruptly.

'What?'

She was looking up at the roof. 'You said you saw something move…' She moved across the gravel, closer to the wall and peered upwards, and her expression became one of disbelief. 'Look, up there, in the corner.'

Severus looked and saw something in the darkened corner.

'C.C.T.V.,' she said, shaking her head. 'They've been watching the house through cameras.'

Severus reached for his wand, intending to blast the thing to smithereens.

'I don't think that's a good idea,' cautioned Granger quickly. 'I think it's best we don't give them any further cause to hound us, don't you?'

She was right; he hated it, but she was right. Frowning, he turned from the house and said not a word as they moved to get beyond the wards. They walked in silence until they crossed the field. He could feel eyes on him again and Granger seemed to feel it too, as her head turned, as if to look back.

'Don't,' he warned sharply. He did not want to give them the satisfaction. He knew that were they to look back to the house, Oakshott would be standing there, watching them smugly from a window.

They knew where he lived. They knew about him. Why? How? He'd never had dealings with the Muggle police force in any capacity before. They obviously knew about Granger, too. Hell, they seemed to know everything about the Wizarding world!

It took him a moment or two to get his irritation under control before he could Apparate them back to his sitting room. Once inside, his immediate thoughts were, _his house—were they watching it_? Were they watching _him_? He ripped off his scarf and flung his coat over the back of his chair. He needed a drink, but he knew, of course, that he didn't have any in the house. He'd told himself he had no need of it lately, for he knew that the slope was a slippery one. In his frame of mind, it was always possible he'd start drinking and never stop. But now—he felt _now_ that he could cheerfully drain a bottle of Firewhisky and damn the consequences, he was so frustrated.

He flicked his wand and the fireplace jumped to life, startling the other person in the room. He looked at her briefly; she stood with her arms folded, looking uneasy. Severus sat down and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes in thought.

'I'm sorry,' she said quietly, breaking into his reverie.

'For what?'

She sat down tentatively. 'For you becoming involved in this. I had no idea that this would happen.'

He snorted. He didn't blame her—what was the point? Granted, he would not have been in the situation but for her. But in many ways, he was glad of it. He did not like to think there were people spying on him without his knowledge, and now, at least, he could be prepared. He knew that things were not as clear-cut as before.

'How do they know about us?' she asked, a slight mark of worry in her voice. 'How do they know about magic? About Selwyn? About Aurors?'

Severus remained silent, his thoughts whirring back over every encounter with Selwyn he could remember.

'One thing's for sure,' she continued. 'They were not your run-of-the-mill police.'

He looked at her.

'Muggle police do not normally waltz about brandishing guns whenever they feel like it. And why are the London police involved? No, they must be part of something larger—the Muggle security service, perhaps.' She shrugged.

'Oakshott did say something about national security, didn't he?' Severus mused.

She nodded. 'Muggles have several offices that work to protect the security of citizens. I don't know very much about it, but it seems to me that certain people within the Muggle government _must_ be aware of magic, hence… what we were just involved in.'

He could see where her train of thought was leading, and could only agree that it seemed the most logical conclusion. 'I think it fairly inevitable that certain Muggle officials are aware of magic, there has to be a certain amount of co-operation going on, but never on this scale.'

He'd not considered that Muggles would be involved in problems that were not their own. But then… 'Still, it is inconceivable that the Muggle authorities did not realise there were big problems in the Wizarding World, especially when the Dark Lord focused much of his ire on Muggles. Who knows to what extent they were informed?'

'But what has Selwyn to do with this? Why should the Muggles be so preoccupied with catching _him_? They've installed security cameras on his his home, for Merlin's sake!'

He didn't have to think hard. Memories of meetings with the Dark Lord were never difficult to recall. He could easily remember the Dark Lord's particular interest in Selwyn.

'The Dark Lord's plan was ultimately to subjugate Muggles. But they far outnumber us, and so he was always, to an extent, going to have to start off subtly.' He raised an eyebrow at her. 'By getting one of his Death Eater's to infiltrate the Muggle government, perhaps?'

She put a hand to her mouth. 'And Selwyn…?'

'Selwyn is a clever man, Miss Granger. He was good at being the oily politician. Indeed, the Ministry were more than happy to allow him to inherit his father's seat on the Wizengamot, when, normally, such positions are not hereditary. I do not know for certain, but maybe Selwyn had already made a move into the Muggle government.'

'They certainly would not have taken kindly to that. Can you imagine the _chaos_ that could have been caused? Do you think the Ministry has consulted with the Muggles over this, then, because the Muggles want to bring him to justice?'

He nodded. 'What else can it be? How else do they know where I live? Who I am? The Ministry has informed them. Maybe we have it wrong about Selwyn. Maybe the Muggles just want to ensure that _every_ Death Eater is accounted for and, maybe, the Ministry are more than happy to allow the Muggles to give it a go where they've failed. After all, they _will_ take all the credit, as long as it is kept quiet.'

He looked into the fire, and the scars on his neck ached angrily. The Aurors had clearly flagged him up to the Muggles as one to watch, despite him not facing any charges. He hadn't heard a peep out of them for months, and now he knew why—they were getting Muggles to do their dirty work for them. Maybe he should have opened that letter from the Ministry, after all.

'What does this mean for us?' Granger asked, after a moment. 'I'd understand if you'd rather not continue. In fact, I might recommend it, actually.'

'Do you think, for one moment, that I give a _damn_ about some interfering Muggles, Miss Granger?'

She blinked and looked at her hands uncomfortably. Did she think he was _scared_? Oh, the girl knew nothing.

'I don't want you to get into trouble,' she offered diplomatically.

He allowed himself a sneer. He would not get out now. He would not be cowed by that intolerable man. He had managed to retain some remnants of his pride over the past few months, after all.

'It's fine—I'd like nothing more than to wipe that smug expression off his face.' And being the first to find Selwyn's head on a platter would go some way towards that.

He noticed the corner of her mouth twitch, obviously pleased. She probably thought he was doing it out of compassion, well, she was allowed to be deluded if she wished. Next time, however, he would not be taking any chances. They would not be cornered by a pair of gun-wielding Muggles a second time. By Merlin, they would not.

'Let us have a look at that painting, then, Miss Granger.'

To his surprise, she immediately blushed. 'Oh, yes, ah, I have it here in my…'

She pushed aside her scarf and unbuttoned the top buttons of her coat. 'It's um…'

'Good Merlin, don't tell me that you've lost it!' He would not be responsible for his actions if she had managed something so decidedly moronic.

'No, it's, ah…' She was fiddling with her jumper now.

He only raised an eyebrow as she mumured 'Accio painting' down her top. With a blush, she plucked the small object out of the air and, clearing her throat, enlarged it back to its original size. Severus sat forward on the edge of his chair to get a better view. It was no particular masterpiece, not in his view, anyway. Still, it was pleasing enough to the eye, and so he considered that some talent must have gone into its construction. The main focus of the painting was a cottage nestled high upon a stretch of moors. To one side of the scene lay the sea, but there was no other distinguishing feature. The sky was painted a murky grey and leant a suitably bleak atmosphere to the landscape depicted.

Granger was kneeling on the floor, examining the painting as it stood propped against the coffee table. 'Doesn't tell us much, does it?' she observed wryly.

She was right. It told them bugger all.

'We should remove the frame. I'd expect a date, if nothing else.'

She set about spelling away the frame moving to look at the back of the painting, and Severus peered along the edge of the canvas, trying to find any hint as to the artist, or name of the painting, anything.

'Hang on.' He ran his fingers over the small intials he could see in the bottom right-hand corner. 'E. M.—wonder who that could be?' he asked dryly.

'Eliza Mortimer, you mean? I suppose that makes sense. If she painted it, no doubt that's why her brother keeps a copy hanging in his house.'

Severus nodded slowly. 'So, we can suggest she painted this, but still, we don't know anything more.' He sat back in his chair, feeling a little thwarted.

'I confess, I have no idea either,' she commented, glancing at him and then at the painting.

It was useless, really. How could they find out about the painting without going to Mortimer? They could never be entirely sure Mortimer was who he claimed to be.

'Our hypothesis that Selwyn may have known this place—had a connection to the place was flimsy at best, anyway, sir.'

Severus bit the inside of his cheek. Every time she called him 'sir' or 'professor' he was back behind his desk at Hogwarts, dealing with obnoxious students and more besides. Much more. Obnoxious students had been the least of his problems during his latter years at the school. He swallowed and forced himself to keep his mind on the situation at hand.

'I think we may have a hit a dead end with this one.' Her expression was one of reluctant defeat. Was she any more prepared to accept defeat than she had been previously? What would _he_ prefer?

'It would appear that there is very little to go on,' he remarked, sighing quietly. He thought of that interfering Muggle detective and felt a pulse of irritation.

She got to her feet suddenly and pointed a hand at the painting. 'Nevertheless, I'm going to try and dig some more into the Mortimer family. Do you mind if I take this?'

Severus shook his head. It mattered not a jot to him. All of his ideas were exhausted. He'd thought maybe that they'd been on to something, but she was right, it was flimsy at best.

Shortly, she left. She mumbled something about getting in touch if she found anything, but his response was indifferent. He highly doubted she would find anything.

And now what was there for him? He couldn't help but realise that he'd done more in a few days than he had in six months, and yet, mere moments after she'd left, he could already feel the lethargy descend upon him. An hour later, perhaps, and it was like he'd never gone traipsing to Cumbria or Northumberland. He felt like he'd never left the house.

He sprang to his feet and paced about, not wanting to lose the little vigour he'd managed to find. His mind told him it was pointless, though—pointless to resist, and soon enough, he sat back down, groaning loudly. Lifting his head, he stared at the walls around him and wondered, not for the first time, whether he should have just upped sticks and left after the war. Left Spinner's End, England, Britain, and maybe that would have been easier than what he'd chosen.

But where? Where would he have gone? He could wander aimlessly around the continent for a while, but his thoughts would surely travel with him. Neither would his memories be far away, even without the tangible reminders facing him on a daily basis. And he'd never run away before—he'd always faced his demons. He'd holed himself up in Hogwarts for sixteen years, hadn't he? The castle was a veritable shelter for many of his demons.

It was a nice fantasy to indulge in, though—to imagine himself wandering, unfettered, unbothered, untouched… But the reality would never be like that.

He looked at the space Miss Granger had vacated. He knew deep down that he needed those days when he felt like he could pick himself back up again, because the thought that he could not always carry on as he had was never far away, and he _couldn't_ continue to languish, he would surely go mad, eventually. He actually would be surprised if the rot had not already set in.

There was something that fought for his immediate consideration, though. That moment when he'd heard the click of the gun—he'd never felt calmer. In six months of drudgery, he'd never felt more alive, and his mind, never such clarity of focus. He fancied he knew what it meant. But how could he manage in his everyday life? How could he recreate such an intoxicating sense of… purpose, as he had felt during those moments earlier that day? He wasn't sure he had the willpower, or the strength of mind to do it on his own. Nor even the faintest idea of where to begin, really.

Where on earth could _he_, of all people, find a purpose?

* * *

AN: Thank you very much for reading.


	7. The House By the Sea

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**7. The House By the Sea**

'Let me get this straight—you're telling me there are Muggle police after Selwyn?' Harry looked at Hermione with a perplexed expression on his face.

Hermione nodded briskly. 'They know everything, it seems. They even know where Professor Snape lives!'

Harry's eyes widened. 'Can't imagine that went down well. Keeping an eye on him are they?'

'Can you believe it? And the Ministry never even had the guts to tell him.'

'So, what did the Police say? What did they do?'

Hermione hesitated, opting to go for an edited version of events that did not include any mention of guns. 'They just told us that we should stay out of it, or they'll go to the Aurors.'

'Don't you think it's a good idea, Hermione? Selwyn'll never expect Muggles to be on his tail—they may very well succeed where the Ministry didn't.'

'But think, Harry; what if they _do_ catch him?' She fiddled with her glass of pumpkin juice. 'Are they going to want to just hand him over to the Ministry? Or will they want enact their own justice?'

Harry frowned. 'They could hardly try him in a Muggle court.'

'Exactly. But if it is the _security service_…'

'You mean they may try and make him disappear? Isn't this a bit James Bond?'

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'It does happen, Harry. Voldemort was a huge threat to the Muggle world. Can you imagine that they'll want to sit by without trying to ensure that it cannot happen again?'

She could see Harry was beginning to see the implications of what she was saying. 'It's possible, then, that they will try and dispose of Selwyn quietly, and if they do, Ron will have _no_ hope of getting better.'

She nodded grimly.

'Well, should we go to Kinglsey about this? Arthur?'

Hermione bit her lip contemplatively. 'I don't know, Harry. I think we should keep it to ourselves for now. The Ministry won't want it to become widely known that Muggles are involved in matters of the Wizarding world. I also think the Muggles are no closer to Selwyn than we are, really. They seemed pretty eager to find out what we knew.'

'And what _do_ you know?'

'Nothing.'

There was silence between them for a few minutes.

'Does Snape have any ideas?'

Hermione shook her negatively. 'No, not really. But he's willing to continue helping me, if I need it.'

Harry looked away for a moment. 'And, ah, what is he… How is he, these days?'

She had to stifle a smile at the awkwardness in his voice. 'I don't know really, but he's been civil enough to me, so…'

'Definitely _not_ all right, then.' Harry looked at her with a half-hearted, wry quirk of his lips.

'Yes…' She smiled faintly. 'Something like that. But I'll tell him you were asking after him, if you like?'

'Merlin, no!' Harry looked aghast.

Hermione smiled wider. 'He might appreciate the sentiment.'

Harry appeared to think. 'No—no, I can't see it.'

She let out a short chuckle in reply. He was probably right.

She had no idea if and when she would see the man in question again. She'd chosen to go down her own route of investigation for a while, simply because she got the distinct impression that she was wasting his time. Plus, she felt rather guilty about the run-in with the Muggles. She had no wish to drag him into any trouble, and that Inspector had, quite clearly, seemed to have a fairly low opinion of him.

It was difficult to know exactly what to make of the whole situation. Just how deep were the Muggles in? She supposed that Snape had been right when he'd said a certain amount of co-operation between Muggle and Magical officials was inevitable, but only top level, surely? Were these policemen, or whatever they were, Squibs? Squibs who'd opted to function in Muggle society, rather than in the Wizarding world? That would explain, to a certain extent, the depth of their knowledge and involvement, but…

Hermione did not know a great deal about Squibs. It was something she would have to do some research on before bringing up the topic with Snape. He might no longer be her teacher, but she still had no desire to appear ignorant before him. Once a know-it-all, always a know-it-all—it was simple.

Firstly, however, she had a more pressing task to attend to. Over the next several days, whenever she had free time, Hermione set herself to the puzzle of the Mortimer family. Regularly, two or three times throughout the day, she would take out the painting and simply stare at it, as if it were one of those optical illusions that if she stared at hard enough, would morph to reveal something else. It never did.

She tried casting certain charms over the canvas, to see if anything was to be revealed. Either she was using the wrong charms, or, more likely, there wasn't anything to reveal. While not making any headway, it was hard not to think that she must be wasting her _own_ time. But there were no other avenues open to her, and despite everything, she simply wasn't prepared to give up.

She did decide to give up on the painting for the time being. Instead, she began compiling all that she did know about the Mortimers. She knew that, historically, they hailed from East Lothian, in Scotland. John Mortimer still had a trace of a Scottish accent, even though he had lived south of the border for several decades. From his relocation, it led her to believe that there was clearly no family estate to maintain, as was the case with many other Pureblood families.

So, where did that get her? Absolutely nowhere. Hermione rested her forehead in the palm of her hand. She needed information on Eliza Mortimer specifically. She was the one who'd painted the cottage—_she_ would have been the one to tell her son about the place, most probably.

Without any other recourse springing to mind, Hermione decided the best place to start would be to trawl through archived copies of the _Daily Prophet_. The Selwyn's were, formerly, respected subjects of Wizarding society. That the _Prophet_ should have followed their ups and downs, to her, seemed inevitable. She wasn't sure what she hoped to find, but she trusted she would know it when she saw it.

There were two options open to her. Go to the offices of the _Daily Prophet _and request access to the back-copies of the paper, or she could go to Hogwarts and use the library there, which also held old copies of the _Prophet_. On the plus side, if she went to Hogwarts, there was a chance she could have a sneaking look at some old school records of Eliza Mortimer. It was worth a try, in any case.

Professor McGonagall had extended to her the use of the library whenever she wished it, and Hermione had already capitalised on that offer when researching into the curse used on Ron. She was sure her old teacher would not bat an eyelid if she were to turn up again.

Mind made up, she waited until the weekend, when she would not be disturbing a school day, to travel to the castle. As expected, McGonagall was more than happy to allow her free reign in the library. She didn't press for too much information on her focus of research, for which Hermione was grateful. She wasn't quite sure whether revealing to McGonagall what she was up to would be wise at this juncture.

Soon, she was ensconced at a table with an impressively high stack of newspapers next to her. Eliza Mortimer had left Hogwarts in 1938, so Hermione decided it prudent to start from there. There was a box of newspapers for each year and she waved her wand over the box for 1938, charming every copy that contained the name 'Eliza Mortimer' to levitate into the air. She did the same up until 1948, by which time she'd accumulated her impressively high stack of newspapers.

The first article to surface was one detailing Eliza's marriage to Selwyn's father, but it didn't contain anything particularly interesting. She could recognise John Mortimer in the accompanying photograph, and Eliza Mortimer, she could see, had been rather beautiful in a quiet way. Henry Selwyn, her husband, was ten years older than her. He stood there with a trace of a smile around his mouth, but to Hermione's mind, it was not a warm smile.

The next article to come to her attention was a brief paragraph announcing the birth of Arthur Selwyn. Hermione knew from her examination of the family tree at the Selwyn's family home that Arthur would only live until three years of age. The announcement of the death of the child, from a virulent bout of Dragon pox, came without any precursor to the child being ill. Hermione considered that it must have been an extremely sudden affliction to the child, and the notice of death proclaimed it to be such.

Moving beyond 1948, and some three years after the tragic death of Arthur, came Horatio Selwyn's birth. This time, there was a picture. Hermione fancied she could detect a subtle change in Eliza, compared to her wedding photo. Her face looked a little drawn, and already, she was greying. Hermione decided it was not too fanciful for her to suggest that there was a tangible sadness evident in her eyes, despite the smile about her lips.

Hermione let out a heavy sigh and put down the paper she was currently reading. She was not finding anything helpful, just fairly useless pieces of information that anybody could know, really. It was nothing suggestive or revealing. Sick of staring at newspaper print, she reached inside her bag and pulled out Eliza's painting, intending to enlarge it and have another stare at it in the hope that an epiphany would occur. She had her wand aimed at it when footsteps approached.

'Any luck finding what you were looking for, my dear?'

Professor McGonagall stood by her table with a small, hopeful smile on her face.

Hermione shook her head ruefully. 'No, I'm afraid not.'

'Anything I can help with? I do not like to think of Mr Weasley confined to the hospital as he is. Molly tells me there has been no change at all.'

'Yes, none,' Hermione affirmed, her heart feeling suddenly heavy.

McGonagall sat down beside her and cast an eye over the papers on the desk. Hermione decided she might as well go for it and throw caution to the wind.

'I don't suppose you know anything of the Mortimer family?'

The Headmistress considered for a moment. 'No, nothing. May I enquire as what they have to do with Mr Weasley?'

Hermione picked up her quill and tapped it against the paper she'd lately been reading. 'Selwyn's mother was formerly a Mortimer.'

'Oh, of course.'

'We thought it might be useful to look into the Mortimers for a lead on Selwyn. Professor Snape said that it…'

She trailed off when McGonagall looked at her with a significant expression of surprise. 'Have you _seen_ Severus, then?'

'Yes… I have.'

The elder woman looked at her speculatively for several moments. '_How_?' She raised her hands in a gesture of disbelief.

'Oh… Well—'

'I can barely get him to reply to my letters, let alone see me! Indeed, I've not clapped eyes on the man since he left St. Mungo's. I told myself to not take it personally, but now I'm not so sure!'

'Professor, I'm sure that it is not personal.' Hermione hastily rushed to assure, having not expected such a response. Although, really, what did she know about their relationship, past or present? 'Believe me, it was not easy getting in touch with him. I had to Splinch two of my fingers off before he would even agree to talk!'

McGonagall looked suddenly outraged. '_What_?' she spluttered.

Hermione shook her head quickly. 'Gracious, no; he did not _request_ that I Splinch off my fingers. It was just an accident—a long story.'

'I see…' McGonagall's previously tight lips softened somewhat. 'And how is he, then? Is he all right? What is he doing with himself?'

Hermione couldn't help but shrug. 'I'm not sure, to be honest. He's given me no indication as to how he spends his time, but to me…But, well, something suggests to me that he is not 'all right.'. His manner is unusual at times, but then, maybe it _is _his way, I don't know.'

McGonagall adjusted her glasses and Hermione heard a small sigh escape from her. 'Maybe I'll try again…'

Hermione gave her a small, encouraging smile.

'So, what's this?' McGonagall motioned to the painting.

Hermione spelled it back to its proper size. 'I'm trying to work out where the cottage is in the painting. But I have no idea.'

'What is the cottage called?'

'I don't know.'

'What does it say on the sign?'

'What sign?'

McGonagall pointed to the little painted sign hanging by the door of the cottage.

'But it's tiny…' Hermione frowned in confusion.

'This is not a magical painting, in the sense that the landscape is always moving and changing. However, it was obviously not painted by a Muggle. Go on, tap your wand on the sign.'

Hermione did as requested and to her disbelief, the painting suddenly zoomed in on itself till the whole canvas was a close up of the front door of the cottage.

'Is this a joke?' Hermione couldn't believe how stupid she'd been.

Professor McGonagall bit her lip, apparently amused. 'Now, this is a very complex charm, and most people do not bother with them, especially if they are not professional artists.'

'But I cast Revealing charms and everything on it and nothing came up!'

'That is because it is not cast on the painting afterwards as a separate charm. The charm is infused into the paint, and well, like I say, it's very complex. Filius, I daresay, could give you a thorough exposition on the subject.'

'But how could you tell it was there?'

'The charm affects the paint when it is infused, allowing it to stretch, if you like, without it cracking. However, charms such as these do wear off after a time, and see here, where the paint has begun to deteriorate?'

Hermione traced her finger over the fine cracks in the paint, which she had simply thought were a product of natural wear and tear. Why didn't Hogwarts have Art lessons? How infuriating!

'My sister enjoys painting and has often used such charms in her work. Furthermore, can you see certain sheens in the paint? This is not achievable with Muggle paint, and suggests that whoever painted this had significant expertise within the realm of magical painting, but not so much that the they could get the landscape to move.'

Hermione could have hugged the elder woman. 'Thank you so much, Professor McGonagall! I can't tell you what luck this is!'

She smiled triumphantly over the painting of the little house by the sea. She knew exactly what her next move would be. She needed a map, and then she would look up every Thistledown cottage she could find. She just prayed there would not be very many.

After bidding goodbye to the Headmistress, Hermione Apparated to her parents' house. They were both in work, so she let herself in and headed straight for one of the bookcases. She easily found her father's huge Ordnance Survey road map of the British Isles and she unfolded it, spreading it out on the floor. It really was huge. She got on her knees and sighed. It was going to take a while.

She knew the cottage was on the coast and that was it. She was going to have to painstakingly search the whole coastline of the United Kingdom and pray that the house was marked on there. She knew that most likely it would not be. And she didn't need to be reminded of the possibility that the painting had been of somewhere abroad. For now, she would pretend that possibility did not exist.

Crawling forward, she decided she would start on the east coast of Scotland, where the Mortimers had originated and work her way around from there. She stayed at her task for a good hour or so. The islands off the coast of Scotland had given her the most trouble. There were so many, and some so small, that she was sure she would have to look up something more specific for that area.

She twice scanned the coasts of Britain and Ireland and, satisfied she'd not missed anything, she looked at her list. There were four possibilities she'd found, but there was only one that seemed to fit her limited criteria better than most. The only drawback was that on the map it was labelled 'Thistledown fm'—a farm, not a cottage. But she supposed it could be explained away as the cottage having historically been a farm, or recently having _become_ a farm. Whatever, she would take her chances and it would be the first one on her list to check out.

Hermione bundled up the map and checked her watch. She should tell Snape about her discovery, she decided. After that run-in with the Muggles, the idea of striking out alone really did not appeal. She was relieved to have had someone with her. However, she was not sure he would want to travel across the country, potentially chasing at shadows. Well, she could do no more than ask, and if he declined, he declined.

A short while later, she was knocking, a tad excitedly, on his door at Spinner's End, the map folded under arm and the painting shrunken in her pocket.

There was no answer.

Had he gone out? She huffed in disappointment. Where would he have gone? She had the distinct impression that he rarely ventured very far…

She fought not to groan. Why did he have to be out now? It was really too bad!

Unless... Was it possible he was simply ignoring her? He might think she was simply a Muggle selling something. Deciding it was worth a try, she surreptitiously felt inside her coat for her wand. Opening the letterbox, she conjured her Patronus and sent it inside.

She smiled in triumph when, several minutes later, the door opened. He scowled freely when he saw her. 'When someone fails to answer their door, Miss Granger, don't you think that's expressive enough?'

'Why did you open it now, then?'

'Because that thing you call a Patronus wouldn't leave me alone.' He looked disdainfully at his feet where her Patronus lingered.

'It's actually an otter, not a thing.'

'Really.'

Hermione vanished her Patronus and looked at him expectantly.

'What do you want?' he asked with a resignation that Hermione enthusiastically opted to ignore.

'Fancy a trip to the Isle of Arran, Professor?'

He stared at her. For one tense moment, she thought he was simply going to slam the door in her face. 'The Isle of Arran,' he repeated blankly. 'I suppose you'd better come in.'

She followed him into the seemingly perpetually dark sitting room. He sat down, and there was a book at his feet. Before she could have a nose at what it had been entitled, he had sent it whizzing back to the bookshelf. She loved to know what other people were reading. Maybe because she was inherently a literature snob and tended to pass judgement on other people's reading material, but, also, she found it provided a little insight into the person reading it.

'Well?' he demanded.

Hermione turned her mind back to the task at hand, taking out the painting and, once at its proper size, propped it up in front of him. She cleared her throat, pressed her wand to the sign on the cottage, and then stood back to watch his reaction. She saw his jaw clench as he stared at the canvas.

She was sure she heard him swear under his breath, as well.

He raised his eyes to hers and she couldn't resist lifting her eyebrow in sardonic amusement, as if to say, 'Didn't _you_ know about this?'

His eyes hardened visibly and she knew he was about to spit some vitriol at her, so she eased in a quiet chuckle to forestall him.

'Don't worry, Professor McGonagall had to point it out to me.'

He relaxed a fraction. 'When did you see Minerva?'

'Today, in fact. I went to Hogwarts to use the library. She, ah, send her regards.'

His expression gave nothing away and he said nothing in response. Hermione suddenly felt awkward, caught between wanting to say more on the subject about Professor McGonagall and the probability that it wasn't her place to. She wanted to tell him that the old Professor would like to see him, but she wasn't sure he even cared.

'What about this Thistledown cottage, then?'

'I've scoured a map and found a few references to a Thistledown cottage, but there's one that I have a good feeling about.' She unfolded the map and showed him the panel detailing the west coast of Scotland and the Isle of Arran. 'See there, in the village of Blackwaterfoot is Thistledown farm. I think it's the one that corresponds best. It's close to the sea; it's on it's own; the relief of the land is fairly high in relation to sea level, and we can see in the painting that the topography is quite undulating. Consider, also, that the Mortimers were originally from Scotland. Did they have family living in the Isle of Arran? Or maybe they holidayed there? What do you think, sir?'

He lifted his hand in a flippant gesture of concession. 'It's plausible.'

That was it—his total speech on the subject. Hermione breathed deeply to retain her patience. 'Well, sir? Does it not seem a good idea for us to go and find out more about this house?'

'I suppose.'

It was to be expected, really, that her enthusiasm was not infectious, but still. At that moment she felt like lighting a fire under him.

_Again_, a little voice in her mind reminded her and she very nearly blushed.

She tried a different tack. 'If you are agreeable, I should like to go today. But of course, you don't have to join me…'

He looked at the painting for a while before eventually replying that they 'would need a Portkey.'

'We could create one ourselves to save time…' she ventured.

He got to his feet and put a hand to his hair momentarily. 'It makes no difference to me; create one yourself if you want. I'm sure unauthorised Portkeys are the least of our worries.' He picked up the map. 'Just make the Portkey for Ardrossan, not the Isle of Arran.' He slapped the map back down. 'Oh, and one other thing, Miss Granger, I shall entreat you to cease referring to me as 'sir' or 'professor'.'

He glared at her before disappearing out of the room, and Hermione stood there, vaguely stunned as she listened to his tread on the stairs.

Shaking her head at his ineffability, she searched through her pockets and pulled out an old receipt. She'd just cast _Portus_ on it, when he reappeared back in the room with his coat on.

She stared obstinately at the back of him as he stuffed his wand up his sleeve. What on earth was she supposed to call him, then?

_Severus_?

Hermione helplessly cringed. She couldn't—it just felt too strange. She cleared her throat uncomfortably. 'Um, why are we going to Ardrossan and not to the island?'

She would just avoid having to address him. Simple.

He picked up the map again. 'Because, Miss Granger, we have no idea what we are walking into. Ardrossan is where the Muggle ferry crossing is to the Isle of Arran from the mainland. We will try to find out as much as we can about the house beforehand. Does that meet with your approval?'

His expression dared her to object.

Hermione nodded. 'That's fine.'

Inside, she felt a thrill of something—of anticipation, of even fear, perhaps. What if they were on Selwyn's path, after all? What then? What if they finally _did_ discover him? Would they have time to contact the Aurors? Could they deal with it themselves? Just how prepared would Selwyn be for the possibility of discovery?

Probably extremely well; she knew she would be if it were her.

Hermione let out a breath. She was getting way ahead of herself. They were just following up another line of enquiry. One that would probably be a dead-end.

_But would it be a dead-end_? she wondered. They may have discovered precious little about Selwyn's movements after the War, but she had a good feeling about this. She hardly expected to find Selwyn himself there, but she expected to find _something_.

Hermione took out her wand and Shrunk the painting to a smaller size. It fell from where it was propped against the table to lie flat on the floor. She bent down to retrieve it, and it was only the chanciest of glances, really, but she noticed something peeking out from underneath his armchair.

Suddenly, she felt a little strange. Straightening, she pocketed both the painting and her wand. She looked over at her companion, swiftly dropping her gaze when she saw that he was perilously close to discovering her appraisal. She tried to shake off the uncomfortable feeling that had overtaken her. Really, a bottle of Firewhisky was innocuous enough.

But on top of the other little things she'd noticed about him...

Was that what he'd been doing before he finally deigned to answer his door—drinking whisky in the middle of the afternoon? Momentarily, she decided she was probably being a bit far-fectched. After all, he did not _look_ like he'd been drinking, and besides, just because the bottle was empty did not mean that it had been emptied with any haste.

He extinguished the fire and the few candles in the room and indicated that she should produce the Portkey. She did so, silently, while telling herself that what he did with himself in his own time was none of her business, really. It was not for her to question his actions, and actually, she wasn't sure she could ever find the courage to dare to, even if she wanted to. She was quite sure that being a supposedly brave Gryffindor would fail her quite comprehensively to that end.

Still, as she clutched the receipt and they were transported away, the shadow of disquiet lingered with her for some time.

* * *

AN: Thanks to everyone who has left a review : )


	8. A Life Beyond Reproach

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**8. A Life Beyond Reproach**

He thought he would have been used to it, spending as many years as he had in the Scottish highlands, but no, the chill hit him like a slap in the face when they appeared in Ardrossan. Severus frowned as he surveyed their surroundings—an area of nondescript parkland.

'Any idea where we are?' he asked.

Granger pulled out her map and studied it. 'I'm not sure, really,' she replied after a moment.

Sighing a little, he pulled out his wand and used it to find north. 'We shall follow this path in a westerly direction and hope for the best.'

He set off immediately and she followed without a word. They walked in silence until they eventually rounded a corner and ahead, the trees thinned to reveal a road and a few buildings.

'So, what's the plan?' his companion asked.

Severus paused. He wasn't entirely sure. 'Haven't _you_ got any ideas?'

He heard her huff her breath quietly. 'Well, paramount is establishing whether we have the right cottage, but I suppose the only way to do that is see it for ourselves.'

He nodded. 'Let us assume that it is. So, we need as much information about the place as possible. For instance, it would be to our benefit to know whether this cottage is inhabited by a Muggle or not. If it is a Muggle, then, obviously, we are going to have to fabricate a story.'

'I suppose we could say one of us is tracing a family member…'

Severus wasn't convinced that would stand up, but it would do for the time being.

'Do you think it possible that Selwyn is on the island? Is that why you wanted to come here first, in case he discovers our presence?'

Severus thought for a moment. Honestly, he did not think they would find Selwyn there. 'If it were me, I would not linger in any one spot, not until a few years had elapsed, anyway.'

She stopped in her tracks and Severus frowned impatiently. It was freezing cold—he had no desire to dally about outside. She looked up at the trees with frustration. 'Part of me thinks you're right…'

'And the other part?'

'I know we touched on it before, but what about disguise?'

Severus dug his hands deeper into his pockets. 'Disguise is not necessarily easy. Polyjuice is the best, but let's face it, not many people can whip up a batch whenever they feel like it. Access to it, otherwise, is restricted. Furthermore, consider the difficulty in _sustained_ use of the potion. What do you do with the person you are imitating? I assure you, Selwyn would have no scruples on that score, but it is a bit of a logistical problem.'

'He could disguise himself without magical means.'

'It is possible to do so to good effect, certainly. But I should say nothing is ever foolproof.'

She sighed and resumed walking. 'I suppose it's just something we will have to be vigilant about, sir.'

He noticed the clearing of her throat that seemed to suggest she'd suddenly remembered his request to no longer address him as 'sir.' But he let the incident slide. After all, he'd not given her any alternative. Letting her use his first name was a level of personal intimacy that, frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted to share with Hermione Granger. He supposed he would have to be satisfied with one or the other.

'I've been thinking about where we will find the information we need. I expect estate agents here will be advertising properties on Arran. We could enquire there. There's also bound to be a travel agent or tourist information centre here somewhere. We can say we're tourists considering a trip to the island—'

Severus interrupted with a snort of pained disbelief. 'Miss Granger, please, there has to be _some_ shred of credibility. I actually can't think of anything _less_ likely than you and I on holiday together.'

It was true. No doubt they would attract some strange glances—him, clearly some years older than the slip of a girl he was travelling around with. It wasn't as if they could be mistaken for family, either.

She issued a short laugh. 'Fair point. Well, if anyone else asks, we can simply say we are doing research on the island.'

That sounded a tad more plausible.

For the next hour or so, they wandered around the small town, but their information gathering wasn't proving very fruitful. The time was getting on, and already, some places had closed. They did find the Tourist Information office open, and Severus waited outside while Granger went in. He'd hoped to find out more before they crossed the Firth and landed on the island. They could not know what awaited them when they got there, and he would have liked to take all possible precautions. They would be better off, perhaps, going disguised, themselves. Were Selwyn lurking anywhere, he would doubtless recognise the both of them. But it was difficult. Transfiguring oneself, or charming oneself, to look different was risky and ill-advised.

And it could still turn out that they had the wrong house…

Granger reappeared clutching a sheaf of papers. 'Every piece of information on Arran you could wish for,' she said with a wry smile. 'I did find out that Blackwaterfoot is a rather small village.'

They began walking in the direction of the harbour.

'I asked about self-catering accommodation in Blackwaterfoot, and she gave me a brochure on holiday cottages. Guess what? Thistledown farm is _not_ listed—inference, then, that it likely belongs to a local and will most probably be occupied at this time of year. We still have no idea of it's history or current occupier to—'

They heard a dull blast of a horn as they rounded the corner. In the distance, they could see the ferry pulling away from the quayside. Granger scrambled to look at her watch. 'Do you think that's the last one tonight?'

Severus only watched as she shuffled through her collection of papers and found a leaflet for ferry crossings between Ardrossan and Brodick.

'Bugger,' she muttered crossly. 'That _is_ the last one until tomorrow.' She looked at him as if expecting him to have a solution.

'Before you say anything, no, I am not attempting to Apparate across a stretch of water using only a photograph as a guide.'

Her expression became scandalised. 'Just how reckless do you think I am?'

He blithely looked out over the water. He'd done it before.

'I'd wanted to get there today…' She looked around for inspiration. 'The marina…'

'Trespassing not enough for you, Miss Granger? Fancy hijacking a boat, do you?'

'I prefer _borrow_,' she said with affected pedantry and he found himself smirking. 'No, I wouldn't know what to do with a boat, but someone in this place must. Maybe we can find someone to take us across? It's not an especially long journey…'

'It's dark, it's cold, it's a Saturday night—yes, who wouldn't want to ship two strangers over to Arran?'

'Do you have another suggestion?' she asked snippily.

No, he didn't.

'Well, then. Let's try that pub up the road. If anything, it'll be warm.'

The Maltsters Inn, as it was called, was noisy. It was many other things, too. When Severus walked in, he was immediately grateful for the warmth of a large fire that permeated the room. But mostly, it was busy and noisy. The majority of noise emanated from a table in the far corner, near the fireplace, where a group of old men sat getting 'merry'. Absolutely hammered, was probably more apt.

Granger stepped up to the bar, and shortly, the barman came over to her. 'I was wondering if you could help me? You see, my, ah, colleague and I are travelling to Arran and we've missed the last ferry. We'd hoped to get there tonight—I don't suppose you'd know of anyone who would be willing to take us across?'

Severus stood nearby, trying not to wince as the raised voices from earlier began to break out into song.

The barman flipped a tea towel over his shoulder and sucked in a breath between his teeth. 'Ol' Jasper, over there, would like as much 'ave taken yer across, fer the right inducement, but…'

'Jasper?'

'Aye; him that's singin'.'

They both looked over to the fireplace. There was a fairly old, grizzled about the edges, man waving his tankard in the air, obviously caught up in an inebriated fantasy that he had talent as a singer.

A small smile appeared on Granger's face. 'You mean the one whose so far gone he's singing _Loch Lomond _at the top of his voice?'

'The very one, Miss.'

'I don't think he's taking us anywhere, tonight,' Severus observed.

Severus didn't fail to note that the barman eyed him slightly when he spoke. It was at times like this that he loved people. Always judging, they were. So influenced by appearance. It was _so_ predictable, but he enjoyed it, and in fact, to an extent, cultivated it. It amused him, what more could he say?

'It's dark now; ye probably best off leavin' it 'till morning, anyway. We have rooms here if ye be needing somewhere to stay.'

The barman excused himself to serve another patron at the other end of the bar. Severus swallowed a groan. They'd clearly gone about this in all the wrong way. They should have left it until tomorrow morning to travel here.

'I'd hoped to at least establish that we had the right house by tonight…'

Severus folded his arms and leant onto the bar, staring grimly at the beer pumps. 'It's too far to Apparate home. But regardless of that, we still have no choice but to stay here.'

'People will wonder where we've gone?'

'Precisely. I can't imagine they get many visitors at this time of the year.'

She shrugged her shoulders in a gesture of surrender. 'I suppose we can at least get an early start tomorrow, then, and as it'll be Sunday, it'll be more likely that someone will be at home.'

Great. He was stuck in the middle of nowhere with Hermione Granger. One of his lifelong dreams achieved right there.

The barman, who Severus assumed to also be the landlord, approached them again. 'Will ye be wanting somewhere to stay?' he asked brightly.

'So it would seem,' replied Severus expressionlessly.

'Excellent, I'll get my wife to show you our rooms in a moment. Do you have luggage?'

Severus blinked.

Granger started mumbling. 'Oh, yes, we, ah…'

'Left it outside; we shall go and collect it.' He glared swiftly at Granger, who, smiled weakly.

'Yes, please excuse us for a moment.'

Severus marched towards the doors and out into the chilly air. He glanced at the glowing orange streetlamps around the pub and wondered, not for the first time, what on earth he was doing.

'Right, we need something to Transfigure into some bags.'

'I don't have anything,' he answered. 'What about you?' He nodded towards the small handbag she carried.

'Not really.' She looked around their surroundings thoughtfully.

While she was dithering, Severus strode into the porch and plucked out a large golfing umbrella from within a bucket. He stepped back towards her and thrust it at her. 'Transfigure that.'

'But that's somebody's umbrella…'

'No, really? Just do it.'

She snatched it off him with a frown. Severus turned around and, satisfied there was no one to see his actions, aimed his wand at a flowerpot. In a matter of moments, a large bag lay on the ground. He charmed it to inflate, to appear as if it wasn't, in fact, empty. He ignored Granger's continuing frown.

'I hope you have money for this,' he commented as he headed back inside the pub. 'Because I certainly don't.'

He heard a huff of annoyance behind him and he took it to mean that she did indeed have money. Oh well, this was all her idea—she could cover the expenses. The twenty quid he had in his pocket would not get them far. Still, he always had a _Confundus_ charm at his disposal, if push came to shove. Which, in his experience, it often did.

A short, middle-aged woman with greying hair greeted them when they reached the bar again. She took them through to the back and up a narrow staircase. She made chit-chat, of course, and he wasn't quite sure whether it was merely idle chat, or that nosy curiosity that he despised even more than he did idle chat. He ignored her and let Granger make the awkward, stilted responses.

They came to a stop on the first floor landing and the woman, whose name they learned was Martha, opened a door. She proffered a key. 'Which one of you would like to take this one?'

He looked at Granger. 'I'll have it, thank you,' she said.

The bushy head disappeared inside, and then, without further ado, Severus was led around a corner and further along the landing. Good; he was not next door to Granger and she would not know what room he was in to bother him further for the night. He took the key, murmured a noise of thanks, and found himself in a small room. He dumped his bag on the floor and sat on the bed.

Yes, he really was sitting in some random public house in the middle of a Scottish backwater. He unwound the scarf from his neck and allowed himself a moment to place his fingers beneath his collar to press at his scars. Then he shrugged out of his coat.

What now?

He had nothing with him. Nothing at all. He ventured into the small bathroom and discovered a small bar of soap and a small tube of toothpaste. He went back into the bedroom and glanced around. There was a small television and he picked up the remote control that sat atop it. A few taps of his wand later, he had a toothbrush.

Next, he pulled open the drawers by the bed. Inside, he lifted out an odd plastic contraption that he wasn't quite sure as to it's purpose. He examined it further, pressing the buttons, but of course, it wasn't plugged in. Looking at the nozzle, he was beginning to think it was what Muggles used to dry their hair. Well, he was hardly going to need it. A swish and a flick and he had a nightshirt.

He supposed that would be enough to be going on with. He mentally noted to return the items to their original state in the morning, but whether he would remember remained to be seen. If he didn't, it was hardly likely to prick his conscience much.

He lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. Four patches of damp he could see. Nice. Though, he'd slept in far, _far_ worse places in his lifetime. Some damp was hardly likely to put him off.

The one thought that did form with some insistence was that if it turned out that they'd got the wrong Thistledown cottage, he… Well, he wouldn't be very happy, put it that way. He did not especially think they would find Selwyn in Arran, but he couldn't help but feel that they were getting warmer.

He glanced over at the bedside clock and sighed. Half past eight. There was no way he was falling asleep any time soon, if he even would at all tonight. He might require something to aid him, and of course, he had a whole pub at his disposal. A few nights ago, he'd given in and finished a bottle of Ogden's, and he'd ended up sleeping like a baby—for hours. He hadn't allowed himself that luxury in a long while, and he probably shouldn't have allowed it again.

But, now, well, this box of a room was almost claustrophobic, and a stiff drink would prepare him for what lay ahead.

He swung his legs off the bed, stuffed his key into a pocket and got up to leave. He was relieved that on entering the bar, it was less noisy than it had been previously. Looking at the fireplace, he could see that old Jasper had given up the ghost and had his head slumped against the back of his chair, snoring quite heavily.

He requested a double Scotch off the barman and pushed his twenty pound note towards him. It was as he was stuffing a multitude of change back into his pocket that _she_ called out, 'Sir!'

Severus stilled. Great. He should have known she would not stay tucked up in her room. Scowling to himself, he picked up his glass and looked to his left. There she was, sitting in a corner, looking at him expectantly. Reluctantly, he joined her.

'Tell me, Miss Granger, who refers to their work colleagues as '_sir_'?' They had a charade to maintain here!

She looked exasperated for a moment. 'Probably the same person who refers to them as "Miss".'

He sipped his drink feeling annoyed.

'Anyway, listen, I've been thinking—'

'English, are ye?' came an interrupting voice.

They both looked up to see a man sitting on a stool at the bar. 'What part of England are ye from?'

Severus was sure his expression could not have been more hostile.

'Um, London,' Granger answered carefully.

The man nodded. 'I have a friend who lives in the Big Smoke.'

There was a silence during which Granger only smiled politely.

'Hear yer off to Arran—tourists are ye?' The man looked between the two of them speculatively and Severus felt his eyes narrow.

'It's work, actually,' said Granger. 'We're geologists.'

'Ah.' The man nodded as if he knew all about geology, which Severus sincerely hoped he didn't.

Luckily, Martha came over at that point putting down a plate of sandwiches that Granger had evidently ordered at some point. 'Come on, Gil,' she said. 'Leave them be, they've had a long journey.'

'Gil' shrugged and sloped off to the other end of the bar with Martha.

'Have one if you like,' said Granger, picking up a sandwich and putting it in her mouth.

He probably should eat something, he realised. He'd had a couple of slices of toast earlier, and that was the sum total of his consumption for the day.

'Very well.' He picked up one of the triangles, which looked edible enough, and chewed. He'd eat it, finish his whisky, and then go and while away the hours in that cramped bedroom. It wasn't anything new, really, in fact, he was quite good at whiling away hours.

'I wanted to tell you, sir, that I've phoned Harry and told him where we are.'

'Oh.'

'You see, I thought Harry could have a look for us in the records to see if there are any,' she lowered her voice significantly, 'Floos registered on the island. That would give us an idea how big the Magical population is. We can hopefully judge a bit better beforehand whether we will be dealing with a Muggle or not. I'm going to phone him back in the morning and see what he says.'

He supposed it could be helpful. 'Are you sure Potter can carry out such a task?'

It was like a forgotten old reflex really, to insult Potter. He wondered if it would ever go away. He hoped not.

Granger meanwhile, merely huffed out an impatient, '_Yes_.'

Severus was nearly at the bottom of his glass and was preparing to make his excuses… Actually, he didn't need excuses, he could just get up and go. He was about to do just that when she started chattering again.

'I would just like to say that I _am_ grateful that you are assisting me in this. I mean, I expect you have other things you would rather do with your time. I had to _do_ something and…' she paused and Severus wished she would just keep quiet. He didn't want thanks, he didn't want anything. Merlin, there were times when he didn't know _why_ he was doing what he was doing!

'Do you know? I once considered fabricating some evidence to get the Aurors back onto the case.'

He looked at her, then, vaguely surprised that she of all people would consider such a thing. Was that what she would have resorted to if he had point blank refused to help her, as well as faced with his threat of handing her over to the Aurors? There was a small, rueful smile on her face.

'Possibly, that would have ranked as one of the more stupider things you'd ever done.'

She nodded in agreement.

That she was going to such lengths caused him to wonder, to _really_ wonder, for the first time, about her reasons. About Weasley. He was sure that not many people would take matters into their own hands, not where a known dangerous Death Eater was concerned. What was it about Weasley that could inspire such loyalty and… love, he supposed. He didn't know if it was the platonic love of a friend, or something more, but it was love nevertheless.

That he should be sitting in a Scottish pub with Hermione Granger and thinking about love, of course disturbed him greatly. But the subject intrigued him, despite himself.

Perhaps it was because he could empathise with her? He'd loved someone enough to want to go that extra mile for them. But his love had become tainted by guilt, and regret, and anger, till he wasn't sure what it was that he'd felt anymore. Were _her_ actions out of guilt? In his experience, he might say guilt was a stronger motivator than love, but his experience was… It was not the best blueprint for fathoming human nature was it? No, on reflection, he doubted it was guilt that was driving her. He doubted it was anything less than those noble and admired emotions of loyalty, bravery, friendship, _and_ love.

Guilt wasn't noble. Conscience wasn't noble. For, surely, you had to have done something _ig_noble to ignite them in the first place? And, Granger, to him, seemed to be one of those who always knew when to do the right thing; to know it and to do it with infinite ease. He might have resented her for it in the past, indeed he _had_ resented people for it, but now he was resigned to it. He was resigned to the fact that it could not, and would not, ever be him. He was not noble.

He heard her sigh next to him and, feeling almost dazed with his thoughts, he wanted to get up and leave before things became really desperate—before he said something foolish.

'But would anyone have blamed me for it?' she asked ponderously, not looking especially at him, but staring pensively into the middle distance. 'It's not wrong to want justice.'

And that was another facet to her cause. Even her quest for justice was noble.

Justice was actually a concept he struggled with. It plagued him, even, at times. He had enough self-awareness, and had done enough introspection, especially in the past months, to know it. With Voldemort finally gone, now was the time for justice—for those to pay for their actions. That included him.

'Justice is not a given, Miss Granger. In fact, there are many who never attain it and there are many who may also avoid it.'

'I know,' she replied firmly. 'But that doesn't mean it isn't achievable or that we shouldn't seek it. That is why I cannot believe the Aurors. Let's face it, they've given up pretty easily. And it's not even all about Ron. What about all the other people that have been affected? I think that the Wizarding World will never be able to move forward unless justice is done for the ills that have befallen it.'

'Do you think justice is ever enough?' he asked sharply, and surprising her, it seemed. 'What about those who have died? Justice is not going to help them, and for their families, it's never going to make up for what has been done. Mr Weasley may be restored back to health, but that is just a drop in the ocean compared to what else Selwyn is responsible for.'

She looked mildly irritated, but she also seemed to sense he was not deliberately antagonising her. 'It may not always seem sufficient to those affected, but… If Selwyn is caught and made to account for what he has done, then that is justice. In the circumstances, that is all there can be.'

'And just what do you take "account" to comprise?' He felt on edge as he anticipated her reply.

'I don't necessarily believe that justice is about getting even,' she said slowly. 'But I believe in punishment, if it is warranted and within reason.'

Severus nodded bitterly. She did not advocate cold retribution. Yes, definitely noble. 'If, in two years time, Selwyn has not been caught and Weasley is still incapacitated, I'll ask you that question again.'

She was beginning to look confused. 'Retribution is not always the answer.'

'But does that not redress the balance? Quid pro quo? This is a man who is clearly without any sense of morality _or _respect for the welfare of society as a whole; he would have to be for what he has done, wouldn't he? And _he_ was only one part of a much larger problem. What are we to do, hmm? What is a just punishment for them? What is _right_? What do we… What does Selwyn deserve?'

_What do I deserve? _

She stared at him oddly, and Severus began to feel on the verge of anxiety at the possibility that she knew what he was really talking about. Any moment now, he would see the pity, and then the empty banalities proclaiming that _he_ was different would come. _He_ was a special case. Suddenly, there was a sick feeling in his stomach.

'It's not always a question of enacting justice… or deserving justice, as such,' she began, and her voice was quiet and tentative. 'Reparation—'

He stood abruptly, and ignoring her flinch of surprise, he strode away from the table without another glance. He simply could not stand to hear a word more. He would not be patronised. Taking the stairs two at a time to his room, he locked the door behind him and, in the dark, he rubbed his hands over his face. His heart beat fast, resulting in a throb in his neck. 'Get a grip,' he muttered repeatedly, grabbing his throat and pressing the bumpy skin there..

He moved to lie down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. The damp patches weren't visible now.

He'd always hoped to make amends for his past actions, but now, after the fact, it still didn't seem enough. He wondered, not for the first time, how many people thought he'd escaped justice. Why _should_ he be different? Or was the half-life, the sedentary life he led now—was this his justice? Was this him accounting for his past transgressions?

He frowned into the darkness; he knew what the real answer was. He should have died that night in the Shrieking Shack. He'd killed a man—he'd broken the most moral and ethical code of society. To have died that day… It _would_ have been justice. His justice. And it would have been almost poetic, really, considering who it was that had set it in motion. Yes, it would have been ironic, but in the balance of things, deserved.

Because, surely, no one should be able to do what he had done and live a life beyond reproach?

The answer was simple, and it echoed freely in his mind.

_No, they shouldn't._

* * *

AN: I like to update my fics as regularly as possible, so I feel I should point out that I am unsure when I will next update this one. Amongst other things, I've felt a bit uninspired lately. I know there are a few who have been regularly following this story—I thank you for your support with reviews etc., and I hasten to add that I really hope to finish this. I know where I'm going with it, it's just a case of finding the impetus to add the meat to the bones. I hope that I shall not be away from it for too long.

Thank you : )


	9. Mr Josiah Abbott

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**9. Mr Josiah Abbott**

Hermione wasn't sure what to expect that following morning. She sat in the bar of the Maltsters Inn, alone, sipping a cup of tea. She'd already settled the bill for the rooms with the landlord. All that remained was for Snape to show his face, and truth be told, she was getting a bit concerned. Had he taken off in a fit of pique without her?

She stifled a yawn; her sleep had not been easy last night. Not only had her thoughts been consumed with the prospect of what faced them today, but their conversation from the previous evening had lingered with her well into the night. It had put her in the frame of mind that sought to dwell on all that had happened during the course of the War. Such periods of reflection were not uncommon to her. They came upon her with a certain frequency. She suspected it might always be so, even years from now.

But she truly hadn't expected his reaction to her bringing up the topic of justice. Although, she supposed her surprise stemmed not from the realisation that he was personally affected by it, but by the fact that he'd let her see it. If ever there was a man skilled in giving the impression of cool indifference and an almost sneering aloofness, then it was him. It was often easy to forget that even he must have limits.

She thought back to when the news had broken that he had survived the end of the War. For her own part, she'd been quietly relieved; though, she was not so blind as to think that her relief had been formed entirely without selfish reasons. But for Severus Snape himself, it seemed things were much less clear-cut. She wondered if he knew the whole truth of how he'd come to be rescued from the Shack. He'd not said anything about it, and, well, she felt it was probably for the best. She did not want to be at odds with him any more than she already was.

The Ministry had decided not to send him to trial, but even as he had been recovering, there had been a Public Inquiry. Harry, amongst others, had been called to give evidence to a selection of ministers, but that was as far as it had gone. Hermione tried to recall, but she could not remember there being any particular outcry at this. There'd been no baying for blood—_his_ blood, and… it seemed that was his problem. Then again, she knew very little of his life since the final battle; she did not know if he faced frequent opposition from certain quarters. There was a lot that she just simply did not know.

The sound of footsteps drifted towards her and she wondered if this would be him. She was relieved to see that it was. He looked to her as if he'd slept just as well as she had, if not worse. She wouldn't be afraid to venture that the latter was likely true.

'There's a, um, tea, there, if you want it?'

He held his scarf in one hand, and as he moved to pick up the cup, she caught a glimpse for the first time of the scar on his neck, peeking out over the collar of his shirt. It startled her for a moment, but then it was gone as the ends of his hair fell forward. He did not sit down to drink his tea, and Hermione sensed that he did not want to hang around, so she got to her feet and picked up her bag. She followed him outside whereupon she shrunk the bag and placed it inside her handbag hanging on her shoulder. 'I suppose they might come in handy, later,' she observed.

He only grunted in reply.

They continued walking towards the sea front in silence. The day was a clear one and the sun shone weakly. There was a crossing at half past nine and would get them to the island within an hour. According to the map, Blackwaterfoot was several miles away from the ferry port; but they should hopefully know where they stood by eleven o'clock with regard to Thistledown cottage.

'I phoned Harry from the telephone box this morning. He managed to find out a great deal, actually. Apparently, the population of witches and wizards on some of the Scottish islands has decreased significantly in recent times. The remoteness was often a draw for magic folk, but with the rise in the Muggle tourism industry, things have changed. It seems likely that the Mortimers may have visited the cottage when it was owned by a witch or wizard, but now it is very possible it is a Muggle home.'

Snape was silent for several moments, and she wondered, perhaps irrationally, if he was going to refuse to speak to her. But eventually, she heard him clear his throat quietly.

'Actually, it is rare that houses formerly belonging to magic folk fall into the hands of Muggles.'

Hermione felt slightly puzzled. 'Oh?'

'Indeed, there's a whole host of thorny issues to contend with. For one, it's hard to explain to the Muggle authorities why there has not been a record of former occupants—deeds etc. Similarly, it's always a difficulty when a witch or wizard tries to buy a Muggle house. Notwithstanding the issue of taxes and so forth, with Muggle properties, we are restricted in how we might use magic to improve it.'

Hermione thought of the Burrow and all of the improvements and adjustments the Weasley's had made. 'Muggle planners would have something to say…'

'Quite.'

'So, what are you saying? It is unlikely that Thistledown cottage has changed hands between both magic folk and Muggles?'

'I'm not saying it doesn't happen, and if you say the magical population has declined, then the chances are more likely, but I am saying it is not practical to make assumptions.'

Her first instinct was that he was being unnecessarily pedantic, but the more she considered, the more she realised he had a point. They needed to know who had occupied the house during the time Eliza Mortimer would have known it. It was not practical to make assumptions that would, in turn, bias them into making further assumptions.

'I wish we knew the date of the painting.'

He nodded his head in agreement. Hopefully the current occupier of Thistledown cottage would prove to be either a font of knowledge or Selwyn himself. It wasn't too much to hope for, was it?

She rolled her eyes at herself; of _course_ it was too much to hope for.

The ferry crossing was uneventful. They'd both sat in silence for the duration of the journey. Hermione had sat with her face towards the window, watching with mounting anticipation as the coastline of the Isle of Arran drew progressively nearer and nearer. It was fanciful, maybe, but she had an encroaching sense that they were getting closer to… _something_.

It was a thirty minute journey from Brodick to the village of Blackwaterfoot. Hermione was loathe to use any more unauthorised Portkeys—they could not afford to draw any unwanted attention from the Ministry towards themselves. Instead, she suggested they get a taxi, to which Snape did not seem particularly enthused. But he only sucked in a breath and dryly remarked that it would cost her a 'pretty penny'.

She ignored him. The whole jaunt was beginning to cost her a pretty penny.

Once in the taxi, every time they passed a road sign for Blackwaterfoot, Hermione felt a tingle of excitement. Periodically, she would glance at her watch to determine how much time had elapsed and how much remained. Eventually, as they approached their destination, Hermione caught sight of the coast. She stilled with expectation, picturing the painting in her mind and gazing hard out of the window. The taxi drew up over the crest of a hill and Hermione straightened in her seat, peering anxiously around the front passenger seat to see through the windscreen.

'This is it,' she whispered, looking at Snape with wide eyes.

He only looked at her blandly.

'These cliffs… The landscape… It's in the painting.'

She looked out of her window at the sea and smiled triumphantly. She didn't care; he could be as unflappable as he wanted. But she was thrumming with energy suddenly, more so than she had when discovering the existence of John Mortimer. They'd found it.

This was… Bound to be an anticlimax, she told herself pragmatically.

'What I wouldn't give to live over there,' said Snape suddenly, and rather loudly too. He even sighed. Hermione looked at him in disbelief.

'Such a charming little house,' he continued, with what suspiciously sounded like longing. 'Wouldn't you say?' he looked at her meaningfully and moved his head slightly so she could see out of his window. Hermione fairly froze still.

'Oh aye, that there's Thistledown cottage,' said the driver. 'Got some fantastic views if that's the thing ye go in for.'

'Don't suppose it's up for sale?' she asked with a laugh.

'Nay; you'll never shift him that lives there. Been there 'is ole life he has.'

'Lucky man,' said Hermione carefully.

'`Bout the only thing that is lucky. Mr Abbott doesn't leave his cottage, far as I know. There's something a bit wrong with him, ye know, up here.' He put a finger to the side of his head. 'Always has been, ever since he were a child.'

'I see.' Hermione exchanged a brief glance with the man beside her. That information wasn't particularly inspiring.

They left the taxi in the village and headed north towards the cottage. The walk was a fairly brisk one, taking them away from the most visible signs of life and through some empty fields. They could see the house long before they reached it, and as they got closer, Hermione began to feel disheartened.

'I have a feeling it's going to be empty,' she commented regretfully.

'I fear you may be right.'

The signs were not encouraging. There were no indications of life. There was no smoke, nothing, coming out of the chimney, and it looked like… Yes, the gate at the end of the front path was padlocked.

'But the taxi driver spoke as if this Abbott person was still living here!' Hermione rattled the gate in annoyance.

She was about to ask whether they should try and open the gate by magical means, when she heard the approaching tread of someone on foot. They both turned to face the road, and shortly, an old woman came past the hedge clutching several shopping bags. She stopped when she saw them and looked them over officiously.

'Oh aye, what do you two want?'

Hermione heard Snape mutter 'Interfering old bag,' under his breath. 'We were hoping to speak to Mr Abbott. We were led to believe that he lived here.'

'`Appen he might, yes,' the woman replied carefully.

'Do you know where we might find him?' asked Hermione patiently.

The woman considered for a moment, and jerked her head towards the cottage. 'That's where 'e lives, right enough.'

'But the gate is padlocked.'

'`E don't leave the house much, and doesn't like to be disturbed with visitors. The Postmaster in the village could tell yer more—`e's the only one who ever sees 'im much.'

With that, she took off without a backwards glance. Hermione sighed and stepped away from the gate. She'd known, deep down, that they'd come away with nothing. And what could they do?

'Do you think he is inside, after all?'

'It's possible, but…'

She shook her head in a gesture of both frustration and exasperation. She could not justify getting inside some old man's house who, like as not, had absolutely nothing to do with Selwyn.

'That's it, then. I don't know what else there is to be done.'

Snape stayed silent.

'I suppose we can try the Postmaster, seeing as we're here, but I'm not holding my breath.'

By unspoken agreement, they headed back down the narrow road in the direction of the village, and Hermione was fully aware that this would probably be her last stab in the dark. They would be back to square one if this proved a dead end, and it was very possible she would have to admit defeat as far as her own enquiries were concerned. She was filled with disappointment at the prospect, but Snape, she supposed, would be glad to be rid of her. At least in that respect he had something to look forward to. She couldn't blame him. In fact, she could hardly believe she had imposed upon him as much as she had and got away with it.

But Ron… She did not want to go back and tell him that she could not see a way forward—that the only people fighting his corner were, ironically, a group of potentially vengeful Muggles. Still, Hermione was sure Ron featured absolutely nowhere on their list of priorities. And she had to wonder at times how far down he was on the Ministry's list. She was quite sure they would be content simply to have Selwyn quietly dealt with once and for all—one less burden on the taxpayer.

The roar of an engine could suddenly be heard, and Hermione had only moments to step to the side as a car sped past. Muddy water splashed up her leg from the puddle she'd unwittingly stepped in.

'Idiots!' she hissed as the car disappeared around a bend. 'Why do people always insist on driving like maniacs on country roads?'

Snape seemed to ignore her, but she detected a trace of scowl on his face that she took to mean he agreed with her. Discreetly casting a Cleaning charm on her trouser leg, they continued towards the village without mishap. They'd just found a sign directing to the Post Office when Hermione groaned aloud.

'Oh, for crying out loud—it's Sunday! The bloody Post Office won't be open today!'

Snape huffed out an impatient breath and Hermione fully empathised, feeling full of defeat. 'We're getting nowhere.' She looked at her hands impatiently. 'It's useless; we can't go about disturbing people who don't want to be disturbed...'

'It doesn't seem to me that Selwyn would have any connection here, anyway. They're all Muggles… I think we've picked up the wrong thread.'

Hermione looked at him. 'I think you may be right.'

Merlin, she'd hoped he'd contradict her. She'd hoped he'd seen something, or deduced something that she hadn't. She was deluding herself, she knew; there was _nothing_ to see. She supposed that summed up things pretty adequately.

The taxi ride back to harbour in Brodick was spent in silence. Mostly silence, anyway, Hermione was left to field the attempts by the driver to ignite some conversation. Her heart simply wasn't in it, however, and she was left with the impression that the taxi driver thought them two extremely self-absorbed people. It couldn't be helped; her thoughts were inexorably drawn towards Ron.

Was he going to lie there forever? It was a very real possibility she realised. Her throat suddenly burned and her eyes stung. She looked determinedly out of the car window, screwing her eyes tightly shut for a moment. Now was not the time to lose her composure. She'd speak to Harry, and maybe they could find another way… somehow. But she felt immensely tired. After her anticipation over Thistledown cottage, and then to see that, really, she had been clutching at straws, left her feeling pretty grim. It was obvious; Selwyn had outfoxed them all, utterly and completely.

There was a wait for the ferry back to the mainland, which they spent on a bench overlooking the harbour. The continued silence was really beginning to cause Hermione some consternation, and in a bid to distract herself from her own pessimistic thoughts, she sought to draw her reticent companion into conversation.

'What do you normally do with your time, sir? If you don't mind me asking?'

She recalled that she wasn't supposed to call him 'sir,' but it was just easier to ignore that point. He sent her a rather put-upon glance. It hadn't been an unreasonable enquiry, had it? He was clearly no longer a teacher.

'Is this really necessary, Miss Granger?'

Hermione bit her lip. 'No…' she said slowly, looking away and fighting the urge to roll her eyes. Still, she felt a reluctant stab of admiration at his completely unselfconscious rudeness. Next time someone tried to draw her into conversation and she didn't feel like it, she would try a laconic 'Is this really necessary?' Though, she was sure she would not manage it nearly so well.

They continued to sit in less than companionable silence and Hermione willed the ferry to get into the port as soon as possible. She had resorted to idle people-watching when something happened that caused her to start in shock.

A voice, as if from nowhere, sounded in her ear. 'Well, well; fancy seeing you two here,' it said.

Hermione snapped her head around to find Oakshott standing behind their bench with a wry smile on his face. Snape looked furious, especially when Thomas, Oakshott's Sergeant, sat down next to him.

'Now, lets not do anything hasty, we're in a public place after all and I'm sure your Ministry would not appreciate the clean-up.' He walked around the bench. 'Perhaps you would be so kind as to move up, Miss Granger?'

Hermione clenched her jaw and shuffled closer to Snape. Oakshott took a seat next to her and folded his arms over his chest whilst stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles.

'There's just no keeping a lid on you two, is there?' This was from Thomas, the erstwhile silent sidekick. His tone was one of such deceptive flippancy that it made Hermione uncomfortable.

'It was you in that car, wasn't it?'

Oakshott chuckled. 'Very good, Severus. Can I call you Severus?' He didn't wait for a reply either way, but continued. Hermione didn't dare turn her head to establish Snape's expression. 'We followed you to Blackwaterfoot. You see, we've been waiting for you here ever since you took that painting from Selwyn's home in Cumbria.'

Hermione couldn't help but flinch.

'Oh yes, you see, we photographed the house from top-to-bottom—standard procedure, you know. A study of them showed the discrepancies with that fake painting you left behind. We'd been to see old man Mortimer many weeks ago, of course, but had not made the link between the paintings. We commend you for that.'

Hermione wasn't sure if he could have sounded any less sincere.

'The old man was good enough to explain it to us, and here we are. Now, the crunch of the matter—you've been warned about obstructing our investigation—'

'Seems like we've given you a helping hand…' She couldn't help it; she wanted to take him down a peg or two.

'But your presence has no doubt frightened Selwyn off.'

'No more than you bringing Mortimer into the equation,' observed Snape snidely.

Hermione noticed Oakshott pause ever so slightly. 'Don't you worry about old Mortimer. But yes, if Selwyn has been hiding here, your presence will have flushed him out before we are ready and that is something we cannot allow. As such, we have been forced to inform your Aurors as to your interference. Indeed, I believe someone may be waiting to escort you home in Ardrossan.'

He smiled humourlessly.

'We were planning on going home, anyway,' said Hermione stiffly, but cursing the man, inwardly.

Oakshott straightened on the bench and rubbed his hands together. 'Good… we shall let you get on your way, then.'

Hermione eyed him warily before glancing quickly at Snape beside her. Was that it? Snape seemed to shrug infinitesimally in response. They both made to get to their feet.

'Ah, _only_ you Miss Granger. We'd like it if Severus could remain here with us for a little while longer.'

Thomas had put a restraining hand on Snape's arm to prevent him from standing. Hermione watched Snape shrug it off with an expression of anger on his face.

'What is the meaning of this?' he snarled.

'We just want a little chat, Severus; nothing to get anxious about, I assure you…'

'But why do I—' began Hermione.

'You are not needed, Miss Granger. In fact, your presence is merely a hindrance, so I suggest you hot-foot it onto the ferry before it leaves without you.'

Hermione looked at the tableau in front of her feeling confused. But there was one thing she was clear on. 'If you think I'm just going to leave—'

'Oh, I think Severus can take care of himself, don't you?'

The man in question fairly radiated fury. She had no doubt he could take care of himself, but he was outnumbered—who knew who else was involved? And they were also armed. She could not just leave him.

'Thomas, here, will be glad to escort you onto the ferry. And no funny business, eh? We have eyes and ears aplenty, Miss Granger, if you get my drift?'

She got his drift perfectly well.

'If you only want a chat with him, why can't I wait until you're finished so that we might travel back together?'

'Because it is none of your business, see?' Thomas got to his feet and advanced towards her. 'The ferry is this way.'

Merlin, they had them cornered, well and truly. She should not draw her wand in broad daylight, but she was willing to take the chance… Snape was suddenly looking at her, she realised. With a small movement of his head, he indicated that she should just go. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but…

'After you,' said Thomas quietly, his voice indicating her indecision was superfluous.

Resentfully, she considered that it would be best to play their game—for now. She nodded her head fractionally and began walking towards the quay. Thomas was right behind her and she cursed viciously to herself. The walk was only a short distance and eyes followed her as she boarded the boat. Immediately, she headed onto the deck, to the portside, and scanned the harbour wall. She could see Snape and Oakshott still on the bench. Thomas stood sentinel on the quayside to ensure she did not get back off the boat.

He needn't have bothered. She soon felt the engine shudder beneath her feet and then the ferry was pulling away from the quay. Hermione clutched the railings in frustration. What did they want him for? Did they think he knew something? Something that he was keeping to himself?

Hermione shook her head. He didn't; she was sure of it. He had been on their side all along; she believed him to be trustworthy.

What right did they have to keep him there like that? What could she do?

As the boat chugged further away, Hermione watched in horror as a car pulled up alongside the bench and into the back of it, disappeared Oakshott, Snape, and Thomas.

Where were they taking him?

The car pulled away and Hermione stared at the churning waves beneath her, feeling faintly panicked. Should she wait and speak to the Auror who was supposedly waiting for her on the other side? But they were all in on it, apparently. What use would they be? They'd like as much fob her off and make her return back to London.

She needed to get off the boat. There were not many passengers aboard, but she wondered whether any of them were there to see she arrived in Ardrossan. Was that being too paranoid? She wasn't sure. Though, in light of other events, prudence did seem to be the most sensible course of action.

The fact remained that she did have to get off the boat, somehow, and find out where that car had gone. She couldn't just _leave_ him—as if she could without another thought! It was inconceivable, really. While they may only want a 'little chat,' as they so delicately put it, the fact remained that she did not trust them one jot.

Hermione turned from the railings, and as nonchalantly as she could, surveyed her fellow passengers. _Was_ anyone watching her?

Because one thing was for sure, when the ferry docked at the other side, _she_ would most certainly not be amongst those disembarking.

* * *

AN: Had a little breakthrough—we'll see how long it lasts. Thank you for your support.


	10. Where All Roads Lead

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling_

**10. Where All Roads Lead**

Being wedged into the back of car between two Muggles was not something Severus would have ordinarily have allowed himself to experience. And no matter what the Muggle detectives liked to think, he _was_ there of his own accord. What did he care about the Ministry? Or the Aurors? He was fully prepared to Apparate away at a moments notice. And with Granger out of the way, he could be as reckless as he liked.

In some way, simply going with them was reckless enough, but the truth was, he was intrigued by their… _intrigue_. No doubt they thought he would have some information on Selwyn. But the lengths they were going to… Did they have a lead on Selwyn, after all? Well, he would humour them for the time being. They might think they had the upper hand in matters, but Severus was sure the advantage did not necessarily lie with them.

They drove in silence for nigh on twenty minutes and Severus recognised the route they were taking for one he had only recently travelled. That they were headed back towards Thistledown Cottage seemed inevitable. That most definitely _was_ intriguing. Were they going to demand an audience with Abbott?

However, before they came within sight of the village of Blackwaterfoot, the car veered off the main road and down a narrow lane. Severus clenched his jaw, not especially liking the fact that he was possibly about to be proved wrong about their intended destination. In any case, after bumping down the track for some time, the car soon came to a stop.

Oakshott opened the door. 'We need to have a little chat, Snape,' he said as he stepped outside.

'Very well,' Severus answered calmly.

Oakshott shut the door behind them, while Thomas and the driver remained inside. Severus noted that they were standing near a small clearing of trees, but other than that, there was nothing. Just them. Oakshott leant against the bonnet of the car and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. 'Here's the thing, Snape. You're one of them, right? Death Eaters, you call yourselves?'

Severus casually placed his hands into his coat pockets, but once hidden, he clenched them into fists—one clenched tightly around his wand. He did not favour the detective with a look, but glanced with disinterest around their surroundings. He did not believe Oaskhott's flippancy for one moment—he knew the facts as well as anyone.

'I reckon you might know something useful about our missing Selwyn.'

Severus fought not to smile. 'Do you?' He made a sorrowful noise in his throat. 'I do so hate to disappoint, but in this instance, I'm afraid I must.'

'You're a slippery one aren't you, Snape? But do you know what? I'm going to believe you this time; after all, you did the dirty on your old pals, didn't you?'

'I'm sorry—you don't approve?' There was no mistaking the edge of distaste evident in the detective's tone.

Oakshott sucked hard on his cigarette and stepped away from the car. Severus turned to face him fully. 'I reckon there's something more pressing you can help with right now, Snape. You're probably aware that Selwyn's mother used to be friends with the Abbotts of Thistledown Cottage. Selwyn and Abbott are only a few years apart in age—'

Severus sniffed. 'Selwyn did not associate with Muggles unless he could help it.'

'Well, the mess he's got himself into, I daresay he just might not be able to help it.'

Severus privately agreed, but he had no interest in being transparent to Oakshott.

'You know Josiah Abbott has not been seen for weeks.'

Severus raised an eyebrow. 'We were led to believe he rarely had company, in the first place.'

'He didn't. He was confined to the cottage for the most part—some sort of illness. The old man who works in the Post Office is the only one who has noticed that something is not right. He's convinced something has happened to him, and guess what? So are we.'

He flung the end of his cigarette into the grass and then fixed him with a hard gaze, 'You shall find a way inside the cottage. We want you to find out if there are traces of magic, or any trace of Selwyn inside.'

Severus stared at him. So that is what they wanted with him. 'It is unlikely that I should find anything, even if Selwyn has been there.'

'But it's possible, Snape, and that is good enough for me, and therefore, good enough for you.'

Severus could not deny this little bit of intelligence was suggestive. But he was certainly wary of continuing an association with these Muggles. 'And how do you I propose I manage it—without attracting the attention of the authorities? Or is that your intention—to let me get caught in the act?'

Oakshott smiled widely. 'We _are_ the authorities, Snape. Believe me, no local plod is going to notice anything that might go on at Thistledown—we've seen to it.'

Severus felt his lip curl scornfully. 'What is in it for me? Why should I help you? You can wave as many guns at me as you like…' Severus shook his head, vaguely amused. 'Just one _flick_ of my wand, and the possibilities are… endless…'

He thought he detected a flicker in the eyes of the other man, but outwardly, at least, Oakshott remained stoic. Indeed, his expression became smirking.

'Tell me, Snape, just what _is_ it about the young Hermione Granger that has you running about with her? I hope she's making it worth your while.'

He felt anger then. Anger that longed to propel himself forward and grasp Oakshott by his lapels and make him think twice. But it wasn't his style. Severus merely took several steps closer, staring at the other man. 'You think you know it all, don't you?' he hissed softly. 'But let me tell you, you know _nothing_.'

Oaskhott was staring back at him defiantly, his lip curled to suggest that he was not cowed by his demeanour. It would be so easy, Severus realised, to slip into the mind of the detective. And there was nothing to stop him, of course. Muggles did not go around practising Occlumency. So he pushed slightly, and could feel an overriding sense of antipathy from the other man, no doubt directed at himself. It amused him.

Oakshott's expression was now showing some unease, and he blinked. Severus smiled inwardly, also blinking and breaking their connection. 'How's the wife?' he asked dryly.

A ruddy flush filled Oakshott's face and he looked accusing. 'How do you know about that?'

'The divorce?'

Oakshott swallowed and breathed heavily.

'Why, by an inspection of your left hand. There is a clear mark where your ring used to reside. How else do you think I knew?' Severus injected just enough lightness into the question to be suggestive.

Oakshott scowled and drew himself up. 'Listen, Snape, if you don't do what I want you to do,' he began, enunciating his words crisply, 'then I am afraid I cannot guarantee that when Selwyn does turn up, your Miss Granger will _ever_ get to see him.'

Severus sneered at him in disgust. 'That decision isn't yours to make.'

'Isn't it? Let me assure you, we have our own priorities to look after, and the Ministry have been most accommodating. But we could be open to… _rearranging_ them…'

Ah, so that was to be his bait, was it? It wasn't too much of a quandary, not really, but Severus hated it nonetheless, mainly because he knew he despised this man before him. He despised that Oakshott probably felt he held all the cards.

Severus knew he could walk away now. He should _like_ to refuse, simply to enjoy the look on the detective's face; but he would not refuse. Yes, there was Granger and her crusade against injustice and the impairment of her friend, and he did not want to be the one to get in the way of that, but moreover, he was in deep himself. He'd come this far— he now had his own desire to get to the bottom of Selwyn's disappearance. It did seem that in spite of what he and Granger had thought of Abbott, it was possible that this man held the key to the mystery. He wanted to get inside the cottage—he wanted to discover how Selwyn had been evading capture these months.

He'd seen enough of Selwyn's smug visage over the years to want to be the one who ultimately wiped it off. Certainly, Oaskhott was an opportunist, and well, Severus himself was not blind to those moments either.

'Fair enough,' replied Severus, after a moment.

Oakshott moved to open the car door. 'And no messing us about, eh, Snape? We may not be able to arrest you, but I'm sure I could find someone who can.'

Severus almost snorted. He'd be willing to put money of the probability that it would be the detective doing the messing about.

The travelled the remainder of the journey in silence. They drove up to the cottage, whereupon Severus was told to get out. He was informed that the others would be continuing further down the road to a lay-by, out of the way, to wait for his return.

As he was getting out of the car, Oakshott leaned over. 'Remember Snape, you pull a fast one, and you can tell Miss Granger why Weasley won't be seeing Selwyn anytime soon.' He winked and then shut the door.

Severus watched the car disappear and then turned to the padlocked gate before him. It was nothing a good _Alohomora_ couldn't fix, but, instead, he followed the hedge that ran around the side of the house until that gave way to a wooden fence at the back. The back of the house looked as still and quiet as the front.

He scanned the garden, looking for any sign of life, but there was nothing. Nothing that he could see, anyway. He would use a Disillusionment charm, just to be safe. While nowhere near as effective as full invisibility, it would provide cover enough for any unexpected encounters.

Charm cast, he stepped onto the low fence and climbed swiftly over it. The door to the back of the house was, of course, locked. Not willing to take any chances, he aimed a Silencing spell at the doorframe. Oakshott had said the house was empty, but he would not take his word for it, and creaking doors would not be the hurdle he would fall at.

He crept silently into the kitchen and stood stock still, listening and concentrating hard. As far as he could sense, there were no discernable spells on the house itself. As for the house, it was silent, apart from a dripping tap over the kitchen sink. He edged forwards down the hallway. The next room was a downstairs bedroom. Abbott's no doubt.

He stepped inside, his feet making no noise on the soft carpet underfoot. He looked at each of the walls in turn and almost started violently when he saw what stared down at him. Another copy of Eliza Mortimer's painting of Thistledown cottage. Severus felt a smile spread across his face. _If only Oakshott were here to see this_, he thought smugly. He turned away and cast a Revelio charm on the room at large. He was just a little irritated to see that nothing revealed itself.

The painting attracted his attention again, and he stepped up to it. This time, he cast the strongest revealing charm he knew. In response, the canvas glowed very faintly. That was a good enough sign for him. Now he just had to decide whether to leave behind a duplicate, for he would be certainly taking the original. Surely, this time, Oakshott would not be able to recognise the difference? Unless, of course, he really was being tricked and Oakshott had already been in the cottage.

Shrinking the painting down, he put it in his pocket to mull over later. He turned back out into the hall, feeling that this exercise was actually going to prove fruitful. Mindful of the low, beam covered ceiling, he stepped into what appeared to be the living room. The room was, in the main, uncluttered. It wasn't very large and was dominated by an impressive old-fashioned fireplace.

He'd expected it to an extent, but this was obviously not a place that had seen excessive use of magic. The whole atmosphere was distinctly Muggle, and they would need much more to go on than that painting. Whatever magic was in it could have been put there by Eliza Mortimer herself, he knew that much.

Sighing, he glanced around the length of the room. Should he bother with looking through the desk? Or should he…

_Oh_. The fireplace!

Severus rushed forward and bent to his knees. There were still ash and embers remaining from the last time it had been lit. Conjuring a container, he scooped it through the grate several times until it was full. He lifted it up to the light. It was a punt, certainly, but it would be a good one if his suspicions were proved correct. The corner of his mouth lifted. It really was good to know that he was still capable of the odd epiphany, and—

The ceiling above him suddenly creaked.

He spun round instantaneously, pointing his wand at the ceiling. He stuffed the jar he held into his pocket and stared upwards, wide-eyed. All was still, but he knew what he had heard. He moved silently out into the passage, curling his hand onto the banister as he stood at the foot of the stairs.

He listened again, but there was no sound to be heard. Severus was sure that he, himself, had made no noise. Therefore, he likely had the advantage of his fellow intruder. Looking at the stairs, it was almost inevitable one would give him away, so he waved his wand and muttered a spell. He tested his foot on the bottom step and it sunk lightly into it as if the step were made of rubber.

Clutching his wand tightly, he ventured slowly up the stairs. There were four rooms leading off the landing, but there was one door ajar. Ignoring the sudden pound of his heart, reverberating around his skull, he inched forward to position himself with a view through the partly open door.

It was another bedroom. From what he could see, all seemed as it should. Severus glanced behind him, suddenly feeling unsure, but when he turned his gaze back into the bedroom, he saw it. There was someone standing by the bed. Someone who was also wearing a Disillusionment charm. He saw the tell-tale shimmer in the air as they moved. He smiled; it would be easy, he decided.

There was a flicker again, and he wasted no time thrusting his wand towards it, sending a sharp _Stupefy_ as he did so. There was a distinctly loud thud as the spell found its target. Severus stepped fully into the room, feeling momentarily exhilarated. Merlin, what if he'd just discovered… No, he wouldn't speculate; there was only one way to find out. He flicked his wand to remove their Disillusionment charm.

'What the…?' Severus stepped around the body so he was no longer looking at it upside down. He dropped his own disguise. '_Granger_—what the hell?'

He looked at her with no small amount of surprise. Casting _Ennervate_ caused her eyes to spring open and she raised her wand in fright. On registering who her assailant was, her expression changed to a frown and she lowered her wand to touch her head.

'Christ almighty!' she muttered, blinking rapidly.

Severus simply stared. It wasn't his fault his spell had been a strong one; she shouldn't have been lurking, should she? Besides, he'd not forgotten that time in the Shrieking Shack all those years ago. He'd made it a point not to.

'Are you, or are you not, supposed to be on your way home?'

She sighed and struggled to her feet. 'As if!' she mumbled irritably.

Severus didn't know whether to be amused or annoyed.

'I knew you were coming here,' she said.

'And you came here to rescue me, did you?' He raised an eyebrow to indicate his disbelief.

'Did you need rescuing?'

'_No_.'

She appeared to consider for a moment. 'Well then, I simply came back so that we might pick up where we left off.'

He nodded, wondering if he was imagining the faint tinge of pink in her cheeks.

'I saw them arrive, sir, two Aurors.'

'_Aurors_?' he hissed at her in confusion.

She nodded quickly. 'I don't know where they are gone, but they are waiting for you to come out.'

He was looking at her like he'd never seen her before. Where, _when_, had she learnt all this?

'We should not linger,' she continued. 'I think they mean to ensure that we do not continue in pursuing Selwyn. I can take us as far as the port. From there, I don't know.'

'Very well,' he replied, a little hazily. Damn Oakshott, the double-crossing bastard.

She touched his arm and made to Apparate. Nothing happened. 'Anti-apparition jinx!' she cried.

Severus groaned inwardly and thought for a moment. 'If we create a Portkey, we will still have to move beyond the ward for it to activate, but this way we can travel further than the port. Word will probably have reached Oakshott and the others that you did not make it to Ardrossan. They will probably be watching the port.'

Severus led the way back downstairs and into the kitchen, careful to stand back from the windows. 'We will have to run for it. We will get over the fence and straight into the field beyond. The ward cannot extend beyond that, I am sure.'

'I take it we are recasting our Disillusionment charms?'

'Yes, though, as we have seen, they will only help us so much.'

She cleared her throat uncomfortably. 'Yes, quite.'

'You will go first, Miss Granger. You will have to create the Portkey with only a few seconds before it will activate, so make sure you judge wisely.'

She nodded confidently. It was ridiculous to expect anything less with her, he realised.

He opened the door slowly. There had to be at least one Auror watching the back of the house. Although, where they were stationed, he wouldn't like to say.

'Off you go then; I will be following.'

She shimmered into the air and moved outside. Severus followed a few steps behind. It was after he passed the garden fence that he heard a voice. He did not look back, but broke out into a run. The ground was soft from rain and he prayed that neither of them would slip. He could vaguely make out Granger up ahead, and as they approached the furthest side of the field, he was sure they would pass beyond the wards at any moment. He risked a glance behind and he could see a man standing at the fence watching hard with his wand poised in the air.

'Sir!'

He dropped his charm, and then suddenly there was a hand on his arm. The tell-tale crack of Disapparition sounded, and then they were gone.

Severus was sure he felt his heart sink into his boots when he saw where she'd brought him.

'You brought us here?' he asked dumbly.

He sensed her shimmer back into full visibility out of the corner of his eye, but he did not look at her. He was transfixed by the wrought iron gates and the crest that adorned them.

'Of all the places we could have gone… you brought us here?' He felt sick to his stomach. To be confronted so suddenly with the source of so much of his regret…

'Yes, I thought it best under the circumstances.'

He snorted bitterly. 'You _thought_…' he muttered under his breath angrily.

'Oakshott knows where you live—'

'Yes, and whose fault is it that I have to avoid my own home?'

She blanched with surprise. 'I'm sorry about that, but it is not my fault. Coming to Hogwarts seemed—'

Severus stepped forward and shoved the gates with a noise of frustration, before turning on his heel in the opposite direction. He stormed off in the direction of Hogsmeade, cursing Hermione Granger for getting him involved in the mess, and cursing himself for allowing it. _Why_ did they have to come to Hogwarts?

What the hell was he to do? Would he have the Aurors looking for him at his house? Would Oakshott, once he got off the Isle of Arran, high-tail it down to Spinner's End? Merlin, all of this _crap, _and what for_?_ For nothing!

She thought she could bring him to Hogwarts, did she? He felt a bubble of hatred rise up inside him. Who it was directed at, he wasn't sure. At her? How he wished it could be so. He knew though that it was more likely directed at himself.

'You think you can talk to me like that and just walk away, do you?' Hermione Granger's voice rang out a little hollowly from a few paces behind, but he neither slowed his pace or made any sign of acknowledgement.

'Professor Snape, I don't understand!' she shouted impatiently. She was running after him now, and he stopped and turned before she could accost him.

'I'm sorry if coming here has caused you distress, but I know that was certainly not my intention! Please, if you must go, at least tell me what it is the Muggles wanted with you? They know something, don't they?'

'They have no idea where he is—just like us,' he spat. 'I'd advise you to just give up!'

He turned without another word and carried on walking. There was more he could have said—more information he could have given her. But what was the point? It would all come to nothing, in the end. That's what everything came to in the end—nothing.

'Severus? Hermione?'

For the love of Merlin! Severus looked helplessly in the direction of the Three Broomsticks where Minerva McGonagall and Filius Flitwick currently stood in the doorway. He could see from where he stood how the expressions of his former collegaues faltered as they studied him. _Damn_ Granger for bringing him here!

'What?' he demanded, as if it hadn't been months but only days since he'd last seen them.

McGonagall took a few steps forwards. 'I'm just surprised to see you both here… Won't you come up to the castle for some tea—'

He pretended to think about it. 'Um, no, I _don't_ think so.'

He should just take his chances and go back home. If anyone dared to turn up on his doorstep, well, they could look forward to finding themselves hexed into next week. He was better off just left well alone. At this rate, he could learn to appreciate his lethargy of recent months.

'Sir, please!' Granger was right behind him again. 'Professor McGonagall only wishes to know how you are.'

'I will say this only once, Miss Granger,' said he, glaring at her. 'Stay out of what does not concern you.'

McGonagall and Flitwick were still standing in front of the pub, he could see. But then the Charms master was tugging on the sleeve of the Headmistress and they were walking slowly towards Hogwarts.

'All right! Forget Hogwarts! But please, can we talk about Selwyn, and—'

He shook his head. 'I've had enough.'

He turned away from her once more, but he had only taken one step when he faltered. His coat pocket caught his attention. There was something heavy in his coat pocket, nudging against his thigh with each step, and he'd only now remembered it. Putting his hand inside, he wrapped it around the cool glass jar and frowned.

It would be easy enough to ignore it—put it in the bin and forget about it. It was probably useless, anyway…

He was fed up of interfering Muggles, fed up of escapee Death Eaters, fed up of Granger, and, most of all, fed up of himself. He wanted to forget the whole issue; his mind was a jumble and he wanted to go home to rail against injustice and to just wallow contentedly in his memories of Hogwarts. It was so easy; already his mind was swimming with long ago scenes.

He squeezed the jar in his pocket and struggled to bring himself back to the matter at hand. He swallowed and tried to tell himself that he was being ridiculous.

No matter how he felt right now, he could not bring himself to stand between Granger getting at the truth and saving her friend. He didn't need to consult his appointed moral compass for this one. He pulled the jar out of his pocket and tipped the ash inside it sideways. He'd long fascinated himself with what it was like to be able to do the right thing, to do it completely, and here, if he could put aside his own feelings of regret and… shame, then he could put his mind towards better occupation.

She was watching him closely when he faced her. Her eyes fell to the jar in his hand and he could see she was confused. He could also see the spires of Hogwarts in the distance and, despite himself, he could not deny that her idea to come here was, in theory, a good one. Who knew what Oakshott had a mind to do now that they'd given him the slip?

'Perhaps we should go in the Hog's Head—no one should bother us in there,' she suggested tentatively.

Severus sighed inwardly and his throat felt suddenly dry. He glanced at the jar he held, again. 'No… I think it best that we go to… to Hogwarts.'

Her eyes widened perceptibly. 'We don't have to…'

He replaced the jar in his pocket, prevaricating. 'We cannot risk any Aurors turning up here and finding us. Similarly, we should not be seen going into the castle.'

She nodded slowly. 'Well, then?'

He breathed deeply and Apparated them north of the castle, as close to it as the wards would allow. They stood on a hillside overlooking the school. It was just a castle. Events were imprinted in his mind enough that physical representation was superfluous, he told himself. Still, he could hardly believe that after months of dreaming and imagining and remembering, he was back here.

'We'll be less likely to be seen going in through the back.'

Keeping his eyes trained on the ground, they walked downwards until they reached the perimeter wall. They moved along it for a few minutes and came to an oak door. Severus undid the Locking charm and opened the door. 'Up the stairs,' he said.

'What is this place?' she asked as she passed by.

'Some sort of gatehouse, I believe. No one uses it for anything anymore. Minerva won't mind.'

Inwardly, he sighed. If they were hanging around Hogwarts for any length of time he would have to face her at some point. It wasn't just memories he longed to avoid. He sent a glare at the back of the bushy head before him. With her around he was increasingly getting pushed into things he wasn't quite sure he was prepared for. And Merlin, how he _hated_ being unprepared.

The room was small, including only a table and a few chairs. Out of the window, he could see right up to the main part of the castle. He didn't look for a long. Instead, he occupied himself with sitting down and placing the jar of embers on the table between them.

'Firstly, the Mortimers, according to Oakshott, _were_ well acquainted with the Abbotts of Thistledown cottage.'

She nodded.

'Secondly, as you were no doubt aware, Josiah Abbott was absent from his home. What, perhaps, you don't know is that there are some who believe he has been missing for some weeks.'

'_Missing_?'

'No doubt if we'd spoken to the Postmaster, that is what we would have heard. However, no one has formally reported his disappearance.'

'And what did Oakshott want with you?'

'To comb the cottage for signs of magic. Although, I think he would pay good money to discover that I am harbouring Selwyn myself.'

'_Are_ you harbouring him?'

He actually felt his insides contract with some sort of feeling of indignant dismay. But as he was trying to account for the feeling, he could see from her expression that she was joking. Irritated, he refused to dignify the comment with a response.

'The point is, presuming Selwyn has a wand, and has been in that cottage, does he seem to you the type of person that would leave obvious traces of magic behind in a Muggle house?'

'I suppose not—I could not sense anything when I was in there.'

'Me neither.'

She looked at the jar. 'What does this have to do with anything?'

Severus pulled out his wand, reached for a candlestick that stood on the table and proceeded to Transfigure it into a sieve. 'This, Miss Granger, is ash from the fireplace.'

'I see…'

He opened the jar and began tipping the contents into the sieve, already feeling his previous discomfort begin to fade at the conundrum they were discussing. 'Selwyn could not stay at Thistledown for long, let us say. For one thing, despite Abott's reclusion, there was a good chance someone might notice him. Similarly, we do not know the exact relationship between the two, if, indeed, one existed, but for now we will safely assume one does. So, if you were on the run, how would you go about coming and going from the cottage?'

She was looking at the fine dusting of white powder that had passed through the sieve and was now covering the table. 'Merlin, that's Floo powder!'

Severus looked at the powder, feeling not a little triumphant. It had been a punt, but he'd got it right. 'An unregistered Floo connection is the perfect means of transport. It is also perfectly easy to get hold of Floo powder. He covered his tracks well; whatever Floo connection there was from the fireplace in Thistledown cottage, the only trace left is the remnants of the powder.'

Her expression was one of admiration. 'I never thought to… But this is surely confirmation that he has been there?'

'It's not conclusive, but fairly damning…'

'And no one else knows?'

'Not unless the Aurors decide to poke around the cottage, and, even then, it's debateable whether they would discover it.'

'What do we think he has done with Abbott, then? Has he stolen his identity, do you think?'

'I should say that if Abbott does turn up, we should be wary as to whether it _is_ actually Abbott.'

She nodded and, still looking at the jar, smiled slightly.

'Why were you in the cottage?'

It had occurred to him then that he had no idea how she had come to be in the cottage, when he had last seen her getting on the ferry. And, perhaps he had needed rescuing, after all, however ridiculous that sounded. He supposed he should have anticipated such an action from her, but he'd not considered that she might feel any obligation to him.

'Oh, I saw them take you away, and, ah, well, I Apparated off the ferry. It was an educated guess that led me back to the cottage. I knew that I would arrive before the car, and so I decided it would be best to wait… inside the house.'

'I think I may be becoming a bad influence on you, Miss Granger.'

A faint hue of red appeared in her cheeks. 'That was when I saw the Aurors. I didn't get to hear the whole of the conversation, but they certainly knew you were coming back to the cottage.'

Severus suspected that the Ministry was none too happy that he and Granger had become aware of their co-operation with Muggle authorities.

'Did you find anything in the house?'

'No… but I did not manage to check the whole of it. Certainly, it had not been inhabited for some weeks.'

There was something else he should probably tell her, he realised. Something which, she would not like very much at all. 'Miss Granger, my cooperation with the Muggles was based on the understanding that upon capture, Selwyn would be presented to restore your friend… I'm afraid that both of our subsequent actions will not have endeared them to upholding their proposal, if they were prepared to uphold it in the first place, which I doubt.'

She frowned thoughtfully and sighed. 'To be honest, I'm not sure that I would have trusted them to keep to their word in the first place, either. Besides, there was no way I was staying on that boat, and they have no right to manipulate us like that.'

Severus wondered if he was getting a glimpse into what it was like to have a friend such as Hermione Granger. It was interesting… But then, hadn't he already decided she was infuriatingly noble?

Now was not the time for such meandering of thought. He pulled out the copy of Eliza Mortimer's painting from his pocket. Granger's face changed to an expression of comprehension.

'Ah—you brought it with you.'

'Indeed I did. There is magic in this painting, did you know?' he asked lightly.

She hesitated, and he bit back a smirk as he studied the painting. He touched his wand to the sign on the cottage, but unlike the painting they removed from the Selwyn home, the painting did not change.

'I suppose that makes sense,' she commented. 'Eliza's was likely the original and the other two were copies. If we are to assume that this copy was given to Abbott's parents, then there was no need for the extra charm. Although, we aren't quite sure of the connection between the Abbotts and the Mortimers, are we? We do not know if the Abbotts were all Muggles.'

'No, and that is something we will need to establish at some point.'

But what charm is on this one, then? Severus mused to himself. He cast the _Revelio_ again, and the glow returned briefly once more.

'It's green…'

Severus scowled and ignored her muttering to herself about charms that were green in colour to concentrate. He propped the painting upright in front of him, effectively blocking her out. Three identical paintings in three different houses. There had to be some connection…

He tapped his wand on the surface of the painting.

'It's probably a charm that needs activating…' came the voice on the other side.

'I'd got that far myself, Miss Granger.'

'A password, do you think? A wand pattern?'

He'd show her a bloody wand pattern now if she wasn't careful—the pattern of a Silencing spell!

A password. What would Selwyn use as a password?

'His wife's name, perhaps? Or his child's name?'

Severus almost rolled his eyes. 'Miss Granger, think of what you have learned of Selwyn these past months, and then try again.'

He tried the wife's name, nevertheless, just to be sure. But nothing happened, and he couldn't remember the child's name, anyway. He tried his father's name—nothing.

They could sit there all day, and not get anywhere. There was a million and one things Selwyn could have picked, if, indeed, a password was even the answer.

Granger piped up again. 'You're right, Selwyn was not sentimental in that way, but I can think of one way that he might have been.'

'Oh?'

'Why don't you try 'the Dark Lord?'

Severus paused. Why hadn't he thought of that? He tapped the painting with his wand, and with only a trace of discomfort, said the words 'the Dark Lord.'

It was quite fair to say that what happened next was entirely unexpected to him. Indeed, if he could have hazarded a guess to what the painting was hiding, he would have been miles from the truth. The image of Thistledown cottage was gone—dissolved into a quite different representation.

Moreover, this time, the image wasn't a painting. And neither was it still.

Through the frame, Severus could see into a room and there was a man dozing in an armchair. A man that looked rather familiar. It was a clever piece of charm work, but Severus knew exactly how it had been done. He'd been a spy, hadn't he? He'd looked into all sorts of surveillance charms in the past.

Oh, it was certainly crafty; he suspected the subject had no idea he was being watched.

He stood up and twisted the frame around so that his companion could see. 'Say hello, Miss Granger, to our Mr John Mortimer.'

He considered that the surprise on her face summed things up fairly well.

* * *

AN: Thanks for reading : )


	11. Wrong Move

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**11. Wrong Move**

Hermione had been in some awkward situations in her lifetime, but none, she reckoned, as awkward as the situation she was in now. She was sitting in Professor Flitwick's office, with McGonagall, Flitwick, and Snape, and it was proving no easy task for her.

She and Snape had left the gatehouse for the castle itself a couple of hours ago. It had been Snape's suggestion that they do so, but she'd not imagined the heavy reluctance with which he had said it. But, after his performance earlier on, she'd expected it, and in fact, could not blame him for it. Part of her wished she had not thought to come to Hogwarts, but what else was there? They needed to work out their next course of action carefully.

It was obvious to her now that this was the first time he had been back here, and this formed part of her regret that she had effectively forced it upon him. She recalled that it hadn't been easy when she had first returned, and she had no wish to cause him distress. Freely, she would admit that he had been a huge help to her in fighting for Ron's return to health, and for that, she would always be grateful. Therefore, she would try not to rush into things in future, and she hoped that he knew she held no malice towards him.

So, they were sat in the office, in comfy armchairs, bathed by a warm glow of fire, furnished with hot cups of tea, and Hermione nevertheless found herself longing to be elsewhere. It was the uncomfortable silences that troubled her. Initially, she'd discussed with the two professors what was happening with regard to their search for Selwyn. It was, of course, the edited version. She was not sure how much Snape wanted her to reveal, and the problem was, he was saying nothing. Indeed, she was sure he had not moved an inch the time they had been sitting there.

McGonagall and Flitwick seemed woefully unsure as to whether they should address him directly, and subsequently, they ended up addressing most of their questions to her. She observed McGonagall, many times, turn her gaze to the dark man, and Hermione thought she would say something, but she did not. She wasn't sure she could blame the older woman; Snape's emphatically aloof behaviour seemed to have thrown her for a loop, and Hermione remembered that this was the first time McGonagall had seen him since the end of the war.

Still, the tension was beginning to cripple Hermione and she did not know what to do to alleviate it. His accusations from earlier were fresh in her mind and she did not want to attract them again by sticking her nose in. Instead, giving up seemed the better option, and she planned how she could make her, perhaps _their_, excuses and leave. They were staying the night in the castle, at McGonagall's behest. It seemed to Hermione practical in the circumstances—Aurors were possibly waiting for them elsewhere. Snape had only shrugged dismissively in agreement.

In the end, McGonagall, evidently also suffering, claimed she needed to get back to her tower. Hermione watched her stand and straighten her robes, and then there was the steel of determination taking over her features. 'You, ah, know of which rooms I speak that have been prepared for you, don't you, Severus? You will have to avoid fourth floor and the east wing, because they are still out of bounds.'

Hermione willed him to voice a reply, but he only nodded before getting to his own feet. He was at the door before Hermione had even replaced her cup back onto the table.

'Thank you; good night,' she said hurriedly.

Two pained smiles was all she received in reply.

She caught up with him in the corridor, but did not dare say anything for the time being, believing that silence was the best way to go. She ventured a quick glance at him, but his eyes were firmly fixed forward. She sighed silently. Eventually, they came into a passageway that Hermione was sure she'd never visited as a student.

Snape stopped outside one of the doors. 'Here you are.'

Without further ado, he disappeared into the room opposite and the door was swiftly closed and locked. Hermione was left standing there dumbly. She sucked in a resigned breath and entered her own room.

They'd agreed they would travel back to Berwick tomorrow, to see Mortimer. By all accounts, their stay in the castle would be a short one, and in view of certain persons, it was probably for the best, she realised.

She sat down on the bed and wondered what would happen in Berwick. Did Mortimer know his nephew was spying—had entered his home to charm his painting in order to do so? Had Mortimer been lying after all about not seeing his nephew? Was he even involved in actively shielding his nephew? She thought back to their previous encounter with the old man and decided that she could not believe he was involved so thoroughly.

Why had Abbott disappeared from Thistledown cottage? Was it because Selwyn had been able to see anyone who had come to visit Mortimer? He would know about the Muggles being involved, and he would also know about her, and Snape's involvement. But what did Abbott have to do with that?

Another thing that bothered her was that it was obvious Selwyn had managed to locate a wand. Furthermore, it would seem that it worked pretty well for him. That was slightly disheartening. It could have been a strong advantage for them had it been otherwise.

She would contact Harry in the morning. There was a possibility Aurors had turned up on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place looking for her, and she did not want him to worry. But on top of that, she had a little job for him that she was sure he wouldn't mind doing.

The following morning, after not an entirely peaceful sleep, Hermione went to the Headmistress' office to ask if she could use her Floo connection. McGonagall happily allowed her the use and left her alone for a few minutes.

Harry's voice was filled with relief when he exclaimed her name at the sight of her in the Floo. 'Hermione! We have had the Aurors here looking for you. What on earth is going on? Where are you?'

'Listen Harry, we're at Hogwarts, but you mustn't tell anyone else that, just in case. We ditched the Aurors and the Muggles yesterday, and they're not happy about it. It's a long story, which I will explain when I can, but we'd rather not have to face the Aurors yet.'

'Are these Muggles still involved, then?'

Hermione nodded vehemently. 'I need you to keep an eye out at the Ministry, Harry, especially in the Auror office. I need you to find out anything you can about the Muggle detectives and their involvement.'

Harry indicated his ready compliance, but an expression of doubt clouded his features. 'I'm not sure that it will be easy to uncover anything there, but I will certainly try.'

'I must go, but I will contact you again soon.'

'Good luck, Hermione.'

Hermione closed the connection, not wanting to trespass on McGonagall's time for too long. It was only when the flames turned back to orange did she wish she had remembered to ask Harry to say hello to Ron for her. It occurred to her that for the first time since he'd fallen ill, she'd not seen him for several days in a row.

Before she could dwell on the point further, McGonagall re-entered the office. 'Everything all right, my dear?'

'Oh, ah, yes, thank you.'

The older woman took her seat behind the desk and Hermione approached her. Before she could speak though, McGonagall looked at her with a smile and spoke. 'I got the impression last night that there was more to this investigation that you are undertaking then you let on.'

Hermione smiled despite herself. Teacher's can tell a prevaricator a mile off.

'Now, I don't wish to pry, but I hope you are not in any trouble.'

Hermione knew she could trust her old Head of House. If Snape found out and didn't like it, well, he could lump it. 'The main issue is that Muggle detectives have taken over the case from the Ministry.'

'_Muggles_?'

'Professor Snape thinks that Selwyn may have infiltrated the Muggle government and they found out about it. That is why they are so eager to find Selwyn.'

'Dear me,' said McGonagall, taking off her glasses.

'The Aurors, we believe, would like to seek to ensure that we do not make it publicly known that they have enlisted, or allowed, the interference of Muggles.'

'Well, there are certainly many who would react against Muggles being involved in our world, even if they are only assisting us. It is a contentious issue for many reasons. What are these Muggles like?'

Hermione snorted. 'I have a had an encounter or two with the Muggle detectives, and my impression is that they are _very_ well informed. I am not quite sure whether there is more to it than meets the eye. For instance, they know all about Professor Snape, right down to his address.'

There was a significantly troubled look on the elder woman's face. 'It was very important that the Death Eaters were rounded up swiftly following Voldemort's demise. The Ministry was in such a mess at the time… Maybe we should have questioned the efficiency with which they managed their success.'

Hermione nodded in agreement. 'Who knows how far this _help_ runs?' A thought occurred to her and she frowned deeply. 'The Aurors wouldn't try and Obliviate Professor Snape and myself, would they?'

'Unfortunately, I cannot say, my dear.' McGonagall looked concerned. 'I would like to think not, but it is quite a serious matter. I will just say, be careful.'

With those words ringing in her mind, Hermione went in search of Snape. She'd created yet another unauthorised Portkey, but now wasn't the time for guilt. They'd agreed to meet at the gatehouse at the back of the castle, during the time when most students would be in their first lesson of the day, to avoid being seen.

He only lifted his head in greeting, when he arrived; she only smiled a small smile. They Portkeyed to Berwick, and as soon as they left the castle behind, Hermione felt a little less tense in his presence. Snape himself still remained stiff-shouldered and grim looking, but then, was it not his perpetual countenance?

She was reminded of something he had said to her yesterday, when he had taken offence at her bringing him to Hogwarts. 'Do you truly think we should give up, sir?'

He did not reply for several moments, not until they were nearing the gate to Mortimer's cottage. 'Ask me again in an hour.'

It was not the most encouraging reply he could have given, but then, he'd never been the one to look to for encouragement.

She knocked on the door, wondering where exactly they would be in an hour's time.

'Hello Mr Mortimer,' said Hermione.

The old man's eyes widened with surprise. 'Oh, Miss Granger, Mr Snape. How nice to see you again.' His expression seemed to suggest otherwise.

'May we come in?' Snape asked.

'I don't think—'

'Thank you, it's very kind of you.'

Snape brazenly brushed past the old man in the doorway leaving Hermione to smile awkwardly at Mortimer. 'There are things we need to discuss, Mr Mortimer.'

He nodded tightly. 'Very well.'

When they reached the living room, Snape was already inspecting the third of Eliza Mortimer's paintings.

'Why is everyone so interested in my sister's painting all of a sudden? I told those Muggle detectives that it was nothing important.'

'On the contrary, Mr Mortimer…' said Hermione, resizing the copy they had from Thistledown cottage.

Mortimer's mouth opened when he saw it. 'Where did you get that from?'

Hermione ignored him. '_The Dark Lord_.'

Mortimer clutched a hand to his chest and spluttered. He fell back into his armchair and his lips trembled. 'What is the meaning of this?' He looked between the both of them in shock.

He seemed so utterly shaken that Hermione was prepared to accept on the spot that he had been unaware that Selwyn had forged a connection between the houses in Arran and Northumberland.

Snape, however, came to stand in front of Mortimer. 'When did he come?' he demanded.

'What?' Mortimer began to look afraid.

'Come now, he would have had to gain access to your copy of the painting.'

Mortimer shook his head. 'Well, he could have done it when I was out.' He took out his wand. 'Now, please leave, before I call the Aurors.'

'Mr Mortimer—' Hermione began in a conciliatory tone, but Snape interrupted her.

'Hex me.'

Hermione looked at him stupidly, wondering what on earth he was playing at.

'Go on, Mortimer; hex me.'

Mortimer was looking at his raised wand with a look Hermione could not decipher. He began moving it in a pattern, and she was prepared to take out her own wand to cast a Shield charm, when impotent sparks appeared out of the end of the wand.

'It was as I thought,' said Snape quietly.

Mortimer's face crumpled completely. Snape sat down in a chair and folded his arms, a dark frown on his face. Hermione also sat down, wishing she could catch up with the conversation.

'Do you remember, Miss Granger,' Snape said, looking at her briefly, 'when last we visited, our friend here could not Banish the tea tray? He put it down to old age, which I suppose might be plausible. But we have been wondering, have we not, about where Selwyn might have obtained a new wand? Well, how about getting one from his uncle?'

Hermione looked at Mortimer in surprise. He had a hand on his brow. 'That is not your wand, is it, Mr Mortimer?'

Mortimer shook his head sadly. 'No, it was my father's.' He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose shakily. 'It doesn't work very well for me, but I was too afraid to go and buy another one, in case questions were raised.'

'When did he come?' Snape repeated.

The old man heaved a great sniff. 'It was some months ago. He took me by surprise—he was waiting for me in here when I got back from a walk.'

He looked at them helplessly, and Hermione couldn't help the burst of pity that she felt.

'I of course took out my wand, but he was too quick for me and… well, I was overcome, and he took my wand off me. I tried to reason with him, but he Stunned me, in the end. That is when he must have put the charm on the painting, because I never saw him do it. Has he really been watching me all this time?'

'As far as we can ascertain, yes,' said Hermione quietly.

'But to what end?'

'He knew you would be the first point of call in an investigation. It is possible that our recent visit, and that of the Muggles, will have spurred him into action. Indeed, Thistledown cottage is now deserted.'

'You should have told someone about his visit, Mr Mortimer.' Hermione wondered if he had done so, whether they could have tracked him down a lot sooner.

Mortimer looked at her. 'I am sorry, Miss Granger, but I was ashamed and… I did not think he would go to the cottage in Arran—I had no reason to believe he even knew about it!'

'Tell us _your_ connection to the place,' Snape put in.

Mortimer rubbed a weary hand over his face. 'My mother grew up in Blackwaterfoot, on the Isle of Arran—she left there when she married my father. However, she grew up, and was very friendly with, Genevieve Macready, a Muggle, who was the current Josiah Abbott's grandmother. Their friendship continued for many years, and my mother would take Eliza and I to visit every so often. Eliza used to love it there. The Macready's had a daughter, Abbott's mother, with whom Eliza was very fond of. They continued the tradition of friendship that their mother's had begun, I suppose. After Eliza got married, she went there less and less frequently. Her husband did not condone her visiting Muggles, of course. Indeed, I did not think Horatio would even know about it.'

'Where does Josiah Abbott fit into this? Were the Abbott's aware of magic?'

'We never told them about magic, though I do wonder whether Eliza may have confided in her friend at some point. I have never met Josiah Abbott. I remember Eliza writing to me about him once. A very sickly child, by all accounts. It is possible that Eliza took Horatio to the island, but if she did, she never told me about it.'

Hermione was considering it highly likely that if Eliza had not taken her son to Arran to see the Abbotts, then she had at least told him all about them. Had he thought he could dupe Josiah into taking him in in his time of need?

'I will say…'

'What?' Hermione urged, when the old man looked unsure.

'Well, I vaguely remember that I only heard of Josiah Abbott's birth three or four years after the fact. I always thought it strange that Eliza should not have mentioned it before then. But it is possible Eliza had lost touch with his mother for a while. It's likely nothing, but…'

It certainly seemed to Hermione to be nothing, but it was clear that more research into the Abbott family might prove enlightening, and she would bear it in mind.

When they left the house, Hermione turned to her companion. 'Do you think Selwyn turned up on Abbott's doorstep with sentimental tales about how their mother's were great friends? Was that how he gained entry to Thistledown cottage?'

'It's possible,' Snape agreed. 'But don't forget, although we are unsure as to the precise timeline of events, it is possible that he already had Mortimer's wand at that time. He may not have needed any _stories_.'

Hermione frowned. He was right. Abbott may never have had any say in the matter from day one. 'It seems he's struck gold with Mortimer's wand, too. Those charms on the paintings were not simple ones.'

'It does seem as though he's been lucky on that score. But wands can be unpredictably temperamental when they are not being wielded by their rightful owners.'

'The question is—where now? What now? We do not know where Selwyn has gone. We have uncovered much, but are we really any nearer to uncovering _him_?'

Was he now going to say that they should give up? Hermione knew she was not ready to accept it. He did not reply immediately, so she spoke again. 'Do you think we should focus on Abbott?'

He sighed heavily and she shrank back from the evident indifference held in it.

'Maybe…' he said. 'Regardless, we know the Aurors and Muggles will still be on guard for the moment, so what else is there? Perhaps some harmless research would be the best for now.'

'Back to Hogwarts, for now, then?'

A low sound of irritation was all she received in reply, but she took it be a noise of accord, nevertheless.

Hours later, Hermione sat in her room staring at her notebook in front of her. It was full of notes, information and observations that she'd compiled on Selwyn over the last few months. If they could just work out where else he might flee to now that Thistledown cottage was out of bounds to him.

She'd been mulling over the problem for most of the day. On returning to Hogwarts, Snape had disappeared off to Merlin only knows where. She'd left him to it, but some time later, when McGonagall enquired after him, she'd had to tell her she had no idea where he was. The Headmistress had looked concerned, but also resigned. Hermione had wanted to say something encouraging, but she did not know what had gone on between her former teachers. It was not her place to interfere, but she rather thought McGonagall was perplexed over the matter.

Finally, after feeling like her brain was about to burst, she put her books away and settled down to sleep. She briefly considered knocking on Snape's door to see if he had come back, but he would not appreciate her mother-hen qualities, she was sure. There was something she wished to talk to him about, a plan she felt they might have to enact to get some information on Abbott, but it could wait until the morning.

She could not sleep, however. What sleep she did have was fitful and frustrating, and, in the end, she gave up trying. She felt it would perhaps take less energy to stay awake than it would to try and get herself to fall into unconsciousness.

There was just so much to think about that her mind could not let any of it go for one moment. What did Oakshott have in mind to do now? she wondered. Would their paths cross again? They may even have had someone watching Mortimer's house in Berwick, she considered.

Hermione punched her fist into her pillow and sat up with a groan. It was possible to over think things, she realised. She put her feet into her slippers and shrugged on the dressing gown the house elves had provided for her. She stepped up to the windowsill and lifted her wand to the candlestick stationed there. She did not light the candle, however, preferring to simply stand and watch the moon shine down onto the surface of the lake. It was a sight she'd always been fascinated with as a student, and she was grateful to see it again now.

Resting her elbows on the sill, she leaned her chin down onto her hand and just watched the lake ripple and sparkle. Now and again, a bat would flutter or an owl would swoop through the air. But otherwise, the stillness of the night represented to her an intoxicating sense of serenity. She smiled.

Momentarily, she saw that it was not only animals at large to interrupt the stillness. It was with some dismay that she spotted the dark figure walking towards the shoreline of the lake. Hermione stepped back from the window with a start, as if frightened that he would suddenly turn and look right at her. She didn't need to see his face to know it was Snape. She wasn't surprised at his apparent restlessness, though she rather thought its source was far different from her own.

The polite thing to do would be to leave him to it, she knew that. Whatever contemplation he was putting himself to, she would not be welcome to partake of it. She bit her lip and squinted at her watch; but it was two o'clock in the morning in the middle of November. And she'd seen enough of him lately to know that his frame of mind at times could be… sketchy.

He would not appreciate her interference; indeed, he would probably be angry. But all she knew was that it would be freezing outside and she wasn't even sure if he had a coat on. Resigned to the fact that her mother-hen qualities could not be restrained this time, she looked about for her clothes and outer garments.

The air outside was crisp and bitter, and Hermione dug her hands deep into her pockets when she let herself out of the castle. She walked slowly over the grass, careful not to slip on the dusting of frost that covered the lawns. She could see him standing at the edge of the lake, but he made no sign of hearing her approach. So when she was only a few metres behind him, she cleared her throat and mentally steeled herself.

'Sir, it's very cold out here. Have you been outside long?' He did have his coat on, but it was not buttoned. She frowned with disapproval.

He deigned to look at her briefly. In the moonlight, his complexion looked even paler than usual, contrasting starkly with the darkness of his eyes and the stubble on his cheeks. He exhaled one long, impatient breath and it wisped into the air in front of him for a few seconds, before dissipating.

'I like the cold,' said he in a low voice. 'It hurts.'

Hermione stilled, sure her surprise at such a suggestive remark was written all over her face. He saw it and he snorted derisively.

'Relax; it's not wilful self-destruction on my part. You just wouldn't understand.'

Hermione watched the reflection of the moon on the water, quite lost for words. He hadn't bitten her head off, but she rather wished he had. She knew where she was with that. Perhaps discomfited by his own words to her, Snape turned to leave.

'Sir,' she said abruptly, feeling that this exchange, short as it was, was not one to leave unfinished.

He paused, but Hermione hardly knew where to begin.

'Are you not cold, Miss Granger?' he asked into the silence.

She shrugged. 'I have a Warming charm on my scarf.' She touched the scarf, feeling the pleasant warmth in it. 'Incidentally, I wish you would at least wrap yours around your neck, instead of just leaving it hang there! Or do you really want me to believe it is self-destruction on your part?' She stepped forward, irritated, and grasped one end of his scarf to fling it across the opposite shoulder, so that it covered his neck. Feeling rather conscious of her self, and her actions, she made to look haughtily away, as if not embarrassed.

There was silence, then, and partly she was glad of it, but she did want to say something else—something she had been mulling over for a while now.

'Sir, you're not yourself of late, are you?' It was a bold question, even for her. How could she even profess to know his 'normal self'?

'I beg your pardon?' The ice in his voice, she was sure, was not a product of the frigid air around them.

'Please don't be cross.' She forced herself to look at him and his expression was one of warning. 'There are times when I have noticed that…' she faltered.

He nodded curtly. 'Oh, _do_ go on; I'm intrigued. What have you observed?'

Hermione drew up her courage. 'Sometimes you are very distracted—unusually so. You don't _look_ well. You look tired… You could not face Hogwarts…'

The muscles in his jaw tightened, but Hermione ploughed on with a deep breath. 'Have you ever heard of what the Muggles term post traumatic stress disorder?'

Suddenly he was laughing—bitter chuckles that he eventually stifled by putting a hand to his mouth. 'Oh, Miss Granger. Never let it be said that you do not try to see the best in people.'

Hermione frowned, not understanding him.

He shook his head. 'Fancy Muggle medical terms and outlandish diagnoses need not apply here, Miss Granger.' He leaned towards her here, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as if sharing a secret. 'No, what I'm suffering from is merely good old-fashioned _guilt_.'

The smile he gave her chilled her more than the freezing temperatures did. She was filled immediately with indecision and could not say anything. Eventually he started walking away and Hermione sought hastily to halt his progress.

'So let us talk about guilt, then,' she called out to him, a little querulously.

He spun around as if she'd surprised him. 'I'm sorry?'

'How can you deal with your guilt if you don't talk about it?'

He simply stared.

'Guilt doesn't have to be debilitating, it can be worked through, and—'

He moved quickly towards her. 'I'm warning you now, Miss Granger, do not presume to tell me by business! And I care none for your pointless philosophising!'

Hermione opted to ignore his bluster as best she could. 'I remember your words from the other night, about justice for Death Eaters. Is that part of your guilt—walking free?'

'You know nothing, you insufferable—'

'On the contrary, I know a good deal! It was decided you did not deserve to go to Azkaban, why should you feel guilty for that?'

'Miss Granger—'

Hermione was quickly becoming unsure as to the risk she was running, but she found herself continuing, hardly letting him get a word in edgeways. 'Do you think punishment would ease your guilt? Do you? And what of Professor McGonagall—why won't you speak to her? She is—'

His face was twisted with anger, and her words died abruptly in her throat when his wand appeared between them. She couldn't help but flinch at the sudden movement.

'Shut up,' he snarled, 'or I will make you.'

She looked at his wand and then to his face. His lips were set into a hard line, denoting the depth of his resolution, but Hermione did not feel anxious. 'I am sorry to cause you distress,' she said quietly. She meant it, especially now that she could see that her tactic had failed. 'You cannot frighten me, however, because… I am not afraid of you.' She meant that too, even if she did sound less decisive.

He stared at her for the longest time and Hermione felt herself redden even in the cold. Eventually, he scowled and lowered his wand. 'Well, you should be,' he muttered quietly but forcefully under his breath, as if jealously guarding some preconceived notion that had just taken another hit.

He took off without another word and this time Hermione did not stop him. She put her gloved hands up to her face and shook her head with disappointment. It had not gone to plan one bit. What was she saying? She'd had no plan! She'd thought being direct about things might help, but instead, she'd probably just spoiled whatever tenuous rapport they had going.

Oh Merlin; hadn't she, only hours ago, determined it was not her place to interfere? But it was so difficult when she was continually getting drawn into his… She wasn't sure what to call it, but there was no avoiding it. There was no avoiding the pang of compassion she sometimes felt around him. She was not the type of person who could ignore what was going on in front of her. He could call her an interfering busybody, or worse, if he liked, but that was her nature.

She only wanted to help, but it seemed painfully clear that she was not the right person to do it.

Folding her arms across her chest, she started walking back to the castle. It _was_ freezing, and he was right; it certainly did hurt.

It was only when she got back into bed, to try and fruitlessly search for sleep, that she considered she may have finally alienated him enough to abandon her to her search alone. Had she considered it before, that potential prospect might have induced her to bite her tongue and to distance herself from matters, which, perhaps, would have been to her advantage. Because, clearly, she _needed_ Snape's help with searching for Selwyn.

But she'd not thought of Ron at all when confronting her former teacher.

The conclusion she reached from this was, perhaps, obvious and straightforward, though she felt she could nevertheless defend her actions thus far. But still, it was with a sharp stab of something that felt uncomfortably like disloyalty that it occurred to her that not everything revolved around Ron.

A harsh truth, maybe, for someone desperate to help their friend, but it was a truth nonetheless.

* * *

AN: Thank you for reading and reviewing : )


	12. Caught in the Crossfire

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**12. Caught in the Crossfire**

He'd known his fair share of impertinence in his time, but none quite so galling as that displayed by Hermione Granger in the early hours of the morning. What on earth gave her the right to speak to him like that? How dare she say those things to him? It made him so profoundly annoyed to think of it. Just because he had agreed to help her did not automatically give her leave to judge his behaviour and attempt to give reasoning for its cause!

Did he go around demanding of her reasons for her actions? Did he relentlessly question her motives for her crusade against Selwyn when everyone else seemed content to sit back? Did he tell her that at times she looked drawn and tired? No, he kept such thoughts to himself, as any person with an ounce of tact would!

Merlin, there were times when he simply couldn't stand her. That is what it came down to.

He saw the way she looked at him, sometimes. He recognised the pity. And that supercilious way she had of talking made him want to hex her. When she spoke of justice, and of guilt, and looked down on him in her patronising way… And there _were_ times when she did precisely that. Never again would he get into any such discussion with her. He was sure she felt justified to be the one able to stand on the proverbial high ground and preach to those less fortunate.

She may very well not have anything remotely near the blackened character that he did, but he did not appreciate being made to feel undeserving by _her_. From others, he could maybe stomach it, but not from a slip of a former student.

It led him to wonder at just what she saw when she looked at him. A wreck of a man? Emotionally a wreck, and physically a wreck? Unhealthily repressed? Rough and angry?

But what did it signify if she did think all of those things? It signified nothing, except, possibly, the truth. He was prepared to admit that much.

Still, he didn't have to put up with it. He didn't have to put up with her.

Why was he bothering? Did he absolutely need to see this through to the end? Would it matter if he didn't?

It wouldn't matter, because he knew that for him, the same prospect awaited, either way. Solitude and quiet; listlessness and boredom.

He closed his eyes and winced. He did not know what he wanted—he rarely did. Maybe he would just continue to let life shunt him along until it got too tired to carry him anymore. It had carried him thus far. He never thought much for the future—just getting through one day to the next was enough.

That morning, he had overheard Granger talking to Minerva. And they'd talked about him, of course.

Granger had said, 'I'm afraid I said some things to Professor Snape that I shouldn't have. I think I offended him, greatly.'

He'd been torn between wanting to shout 'Damn, right!' down the corridor at her, and going up to her, grasping her by the shoulders, and telling her once and for all to stop bloody calling him Professor Snape!

But he'd mastered himself before he'd committed either of those things, and he'd retreated to the dungeons, specifically, to his old office.

And he was still there. He'd seriously considered leaving her to it, but if anything, it was the thought of Oakshott that only made him more determined. He could endeavour to put up with Granger, as long as henceforth she kept a lid on her infernal do-gooder attitude.

He'd been drawn to his former office. It was mostly bare now, apart from some furniture that belonged to the school. How often had he sat in this room dwelling over so many things, from petty school business to ultimately life-changing decisions? Even in its empty state, there was a peculiar sense of familiarity that comforted him, and was at odds with his general attitude towards being back in the castle.

It was while he was sitting in his office that he was tracked down. A house-elf appeared, disturbing his peace, to inform him that Hermione Granger was looking for him. Severus sighed loudly, mentally steeling himself, before reluctantly instructing the elf to tell her his whereabouts.

Five minutes later, she was standing in the doorway. 'I never had much cause to come in here, as a student.'

He looked not at her, but straight ahead, allowing himself a bitter, silent chuckle. 'Well, I hope you consider yourself one of the lucky few.'

He heard her footsteps come further into the room. There was a sharp inhalation, and he knew what was about to follow.

'Sir, I'm sorry about last night. It's really none of my business and I promise that I'll try harder to remember that. I never meant to... I'm sorry.'

He'd never had cause to write on her work 'must try harder,' but even she was not exempt from such sentiment. He ignored her apology. 'What to do you want me for?'

'Well, I've been thinking about Abbott, and I think we need to go back to Thistledown Cottage, in order to find out more about him.'

'It's too risky—the Aurors may be there.'

'I know—I wondered if you had anything we could use. Disillusionment charms, we know, are not effective enough. An Invisibility potion, perhaps—'

'Do I look like a walking Apothecary to you?' he demanded, finally looking directly at her.

She visibly moved to contain herself at his sudden outburst. 'I simply thought that, considering you were the Potions master at this school, an Invisibility potion should not be above your realm of expertise.'

Her voice was merely background noise to him. His blood thrummed in his veins and he could feel the pulse in his neck quicken. She wanted him to brew an Invisibility potion. Not your run-of-the-mill Headache solution, but a full-blown Invisibility potion.

'It would take several days,' he muttered quietly. 'Can't you just borrow Potter's cloak?'

'Well, I'd hoped not to go alone… The potion was just a thought…'

'Ask Horace—he may have some in his personal collection.'

'He hasn't.'

He was about to suggest she ask Horace to brew it, but Severus knew he would not have time while he was teaching.

What could he do? He hadn't brewed a single concoction in… Well, he couldn't remember how long. He would cut off his right arm before admitting to Hermione Granger that the thought of brewing a potion made him anxious.

Yet, he could not deny that such a potion would be beneficial for them. And she was right—it was not beyond the realms of his expertise.

'I don't mind doing the majority of the work. It's just, I've never brewed it before, so I am unsure if I have the, ah, knowledge…'

Severus was looking at his hands. It was so stupid. They couldn't have forgotten how to do it in such a short time. _He_ could not have forgotten. His ability with potion-making was one of the few absolutes in his life. Surely, he could go ten years without touching a cauldron and he would never forget.

And the fact remained that he would not give the girl before him another reason to look on him as some tired old machine not fit for purpose anymore. He suddenly realised that, never mind being an absolute, potion-making was probably the only thing he had left. He should embrace it.

'Fine,' he said, in his usual drawl. 'But you'll have to go and find a recipe somewhere, and source out the ingredients we will need—good luck finding them all in the Hogsmeade Apothecary,' he added dryly.

She took off without a word, and it was a couple of hours later that she returned. Severus had reluctantly commandeered some equipment from Horace, which was now set up in his office.

'I will have to sneak to Diagon Alley for some things, later,' she said, 'but we can begin with what we have got.'

So they did begin. Severus gave her half the ingredients to prepare, while he did the other half. He'd set her up on another surface, so that she would not have her eyes upon him. Her surveillance was the last thing he needed at this point.

He picked up his knife and let it hover over the fluxweed. It was just chopping. He brought the knife down with determination onto the board and briskly sliced up the fluxweed. As soon as it was done, he found himself hastily gathering up the pieces and dropping them instantly into the cauldron, as if afraid they would disappear.

He stared into the cauldron. How he hated haste in potion-making. There was no room for haste.

He picked up a Shrivelfig and slowly began to skin it. Then, he concentrated on slicing it finely, assessing his handiwork critically before allowing the pieces to be added to the cauldron. He took the stirring rod and stirred the brew thoughtfully. Logic and method—concepts that he approved of, and never were they so apparent as in brewing. He suddenly wished he'd done this sooner.

Next, he took up some snake skin and began picking off the scales.

'Sir, was Selwyn any good at potion making?'

The calm that had descended upon him burst in a second, and his knife slipped, nicking his finger. He stared at the drop of red and cursed inwardly.

'What?' he asked irritably, reaching for his wand.

'Did he have any particular leanings towards potion-making?'

'Not to my knowledge. Rich wizards do not lower themselves to brew their own potions, Miss Granger—they pay others for the privilege.'

'I see; I was just wondering about the likelihood of him using Polyjuice. If Abbott reappears, should we be prepared to doubt it's really him? I know we decided it was unlikely, but if he could get hold of the ingredients, somehow…'

Severus glanced at her curiously while she concentrated on the snake fangs she was crushing. He considered she probably thought she was the last word on all things Polyjuice. He smirked to himself, suddenly feeling a pang of Slytherin craft.

'Don't worry—Selwyn's not the type to be able to whip up a Polyjuice potion. I'm not sure it would suit his purpose, anyway. Indeed, while it is no doubt a handy potion in terms of all things deceptive, it's still remarkably limited. It's also cumbersome to produce, and besides, many just don't have the talent required…'

He watched her, unbeknownst, as she actually preened over her snake fangs.

'True…' she hummed in agreement.

He knew she was the type who could not resist a moment to show off. He'd not suffered years of her irritating hand-waving without deciphering that aspect of her character. His next words were purposefully blithe. 'I expect you would like to try your hand at it one day, hmm? With a bit of practice, you might manage it.'

He quickly moved his eyes to the cauldron before him, but the cessation of her pestle told him all he needed to know. She was feeling a pang, a large pang, he'd wager, of indignant pride; he knew it, and she would not be able to resist to set him right. It was just a question of waiting.

Sure enough, a few moments later, she spoke with an air of studied indifference. 'Actually, I have made Polyjuice potion before.'

'Really?' There was just enough doubt in his tone as to make her bristle.

'Yes, when I was _thirteen_, to be precise.'

He snorted and continued dismissively with his snake skin. 'Right… Did you know Dumbledore discovered the twelve uses of dragons blood when he was ten?'

She swivelled on her stool towards him. 'I _did_ make it when I was thirteen,' she pressed firmly.

He shook his head. 'Do I look like I was born yesterday?'

'But I did!'

'Miss Granger, you did not brew Polyjuice potion when you were thirteen!'

'I did!' She was on her feet now, eyes wide with incredulity.

Now for what he'd been building towards. He fixed her with a deliberately hard look. 'Where would you have got hold of the recipe?' He shook his head again. 'No, I don't believe you, you deluded girl. Where would you even have got the ingredients from?'

'Well, if you must know,' she said haughtily, eyes blazing, 'I got the recipe from a book, _Moste_ _Potente Potions_, and the ingredients I got from your—' her words died spectacularly in her throat and her cheeks suddenly flamed red. She turned uncomfortably back to her snake fangs. 'Forget I said anything. You're right; I'm lying.'

'Indeed,' he said slyly. 'Because, otherwise, it would mean you stole from me and that is surely incomprehensible.'

Merlin, how they'd laughed in the staff room that night when Poppy had explained to them Hermione Granger was laid up in the Hospital Wing as a feline. Even Minerva had let out a few apologetic chuckles.

She coughed. 'Um, these fangs are ready; do you need them now?'

'You may add them now.'

Hastily, she tipped the powder into the cauldron without looking at him. Someone could do with teaching her a little humility about certain things, he decided.

There was something that was sickening about it, though. While he might have sought to brew Polyjuice potion at the age of thirteen just to prove he could, no doubt she had had some altruistic reason for it. He'd never discovered as to why she'd been brewing Polyjuice, and he'd never stomach outright asking her.

But still... Sickening; that was it. That was what he often felt when he looked at her—sickened. It was harsh, maybe, but true, and in fact, he rather thought it said more about him than it did of her. Lily had had those qualities of goodness and altruism, and at one time he had been drawn to them like a bee to honey, but now he was just sickened.

He returned to preparing his ingredients, not saying another word, trying vainly to ignore the faint feeling of disquiet inside of him.

* * *

The potion would need several days for it to reach completion. So far, he'd not made a fool of himself where brewing had been concerned. He was not sure that what remained of his pride could withstand such a colossal hit as him melting the cauldron like some untried first-year. During the moments when his attention was not needed on the cauldron, Severus took to walking—the surest way to avoid unwanted confrontations with certain persons.

He did feel unreasonable where Minerva was concerned, but he simply couldn't help it. It was just easier to ignore the whole thing.

He kept to the furthest reaches of the grounds during his walks, in order to also avoid encountering as many students as possible. He'd come across one on a late night meandering around the castle, and the boy had nearly asphyxiated with shock right there in front of him. Coming to his senses, the boy had soon taken to his heels, tearing off in the opposite direction.

It had given him a moment of amusement, if nothing else.

But he had come to a decision. He would not stay in the castle another night. Three nights had been more than enough for his liking. He didn't care about the Aurors or the Muggles—he would be returning home. Granger could keep an eye on the potion once the most difficult stage was over, and that would be later this afternoon, providing all went well. If she still required his presence, well, she could come to his home and get him. He had had enough, however, of the castle. It made him feel disconcertingly claustrophobic, walking those hallways, sitting in those cavernous rooms...

Up ahead, he saw something that wrenched him violently from his thoughts. He was on an alarming collision course with one of the most troublesome banes of his life—Harry Potter. Severus watched Potter halt abruptly when he set eyes on him. His expression was one of complete discomfort and his eyes shifted beneath those round glasses for a moment.

Those _bloody_ eyes. He knew exactly when last he had seen them. Well, he hoped Granger would be satisfied with herself. She'd unknowingly orchestrated a meeting with yet another source of his inner conflict. Yes, another feather in her cap for her.

He'd been afraid at what he might he feel when he saw Harry Potter again. Shame, perhaps? Humiliation? Regret? Vindication, even?

He would like to think that setting eyes on Potter, Potter who was alive and who had survived the Dark Lord to live a full life, would give him a sense of justification for his actions over the years. But… it wasn't enough, because he knew, as surely anyone else who knew the full story must, that his actions had been borne out of selfishness, not any innate goodness. It was his selfish guilt over Lily Potter—his selfish need to prove himself worthy in her eyes, above and beyond _anything_ else.

'_But Severus, this is touching. Have you grown to care for the boy, after all?'_

No, he certainly hadn't. He realised now that it might be easier if he had.

Potter was hurrying towards him now, and Severus suddenly had a fight or flight impulse. But he realised Potter was in his Auror robe, and it was curiosity that convinced him to grit his teeth and bear it.

'Sir, where is Hermione?'

'In the castle—somewhere.'

'Somewhere,' he muttered under his breath. 'Look, I shouldn't be here—you'll have to tell her for me. Selwyn has been sighted.'

Severus felt his blood freeze in his veins. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Listen, I've had my ear to the ground lately, and _something_ has been going on. Today, a report came through, but instead of dispatching a team of Aurors out, the message went straight to the top, without any explanation. Next thing we know, the boss is suddenly AWOL, and believe me, he does not get off his arse for anything less than an emergency. My guess is that he has gone to consult with the Muggles, because I saw…'

He held out a scrap of paper. 'The details don't matter. Don't ask me how I got hold of it, but I must get back before I am missed. You and Hermione must go immediately.'

Instinctively, Severus baulked at being ordered anywhere by Harry Potter. But the boy was looking at him keenly, and as Severus returned his look, he saw a flash of indecision form, as if he was suddenly considering whether he should have searched out his friend first.

Severus smirked inwardly; if Potter spent the rest of his life doubting his motives, he could rest easy. 'Very well,' he said simply, taking the paper and turning to the castle.

On the scrap of parchment was the name of a town. Severus didn't need to look twice; still, it was a small prickle of surprise that he felt when he saw it. Had Selwyn been lurking around there the whole time? Or was there a reason for where he was now?

He found Granger in his old office, tending to the potion, as he'd known she would be (he could never be anything other than a thorn in Potter's side).

'Forget the potion,' he said calmly, when he opened the door.

'I'm sorry?'

'You heard; turn the heat off and it will be fine for the time being. Potter has just informed me that Selwyn has been spotted in Battersthwaite.'

'Well… that's in Cumbria,' she breathed, eyes wide.

'That, Miss Granger, is Selwyn's _hometown_.'

She was out of the door in a flash. He took off after her, and she reeled off a dozen or more questions as they rushed outside.

'Who reported him?' 'How does Harry know?' 'Are the Aurors gone after him?' 'Where was he spotted?'

Every time he tried to answer a question she bombarded him with another. 'For crying out loud, Granger, will you stop and breathe for a moment?'

'There's no time!' she muttered.

'Potter seems to think it is the Muggles who are gone after him. He also thinks they have been tracking his movements for longer than we have been aware.'

'They've been following him while we've been stuck here?'

He felt it went without saying that the only reason they were at Hogwarts in the first place was because of her.

Severus Apparated them to Cumbria, but not to Selwyn's home, to nearby village of Battersthwaite instead.

'What now?' Granger asked. 'Do you think we was trying to get to his home? Should we head that way?'

Severus didn't know. Selwyn could be long gone in the time it had taken them to get here. He shrugged his shoulders.

'I suppose.'

They walked out of the village, in the direction of Selwyn's house. Severus privately thought they were too late, but a short while later, he was proved wrong. Just as on the Isle of Arran, a car sped past, and this time they both recognised it to be the one belonging to Oakshott and his confederates. They stood looking at each other, unsure of what it meant that they had just seen the Muggle detectives speeding in the opposite direction.

'Should we…'

But he did not finish his suggestion, for the next thing they knew, was the sound of an approaching siren. In time, a police car, followed by an ambulance, came careering around the corner, travelling in the direction from which Oakshott had just come. It could be a coincidence, of course, but…

'Yes, I think we should carry on,' said Granger.

So they did, following in the wake of the Muggle emergency vehicles. Severus was concerned at what it could mean. He remembered Oakshott's dismissive attitude to taking Selwyn alive, not to mention his complete disregard for Granger's plight.

They walked briskly uphill, and at the top, they could see a wide expanse of farmland flanking the road on either side. But they could also see the Police car and ambulance parked some way ahead, on what appeared to be a bridge.

'Come on,' Granger urged, nearly breaking out into a run.

As they drew nearer, Severus could see that the bridge spanned a railway cutting, and when they reached the bridge, he could see down below. There were Muggle medics crowded around what he could only assume to be a body. A train stood stationary some metres beyond. Granger looked up at him in confusion, but Severus ignored her for the moment.

There was nothing else for it; they would have to know who it was. 'You stay here,' he hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

'What?'

'Do as I say. I am going to see what's going on.'

He heard her begin to splutter, but he proceeded to step down the embankment to the railway below. On perceiving his approach, a policeman called out to him immediately. 'Sorry, mate, you can't come any further—this is a crime scene.'

Severus touched his wand in his pocket and whispered a Confundus charm. He reached the police cordon and spoke to the officer.

'I'm Inspector… Brown.'

A glazed look passed over the policeman and then he was lifting up the tape. 'Sorry, sir. Watch your step along the track.'

His feet crunched along the gravel, and he kept his hand on his wand, ready to impart another Confundus charm on the next policeman he would meet.

'Inspector Brown,' he said at the enquiry from the officer standing guard. 'Off duty—but I was passing and thought I'd lend some assisstance.'

The policeman nodded. 'We're waiting for SOCOs to arrive, but it looks like accidental death.'

Severus had no idea what SOCOs were. 'He's dead, then…' He glanced at the body, but it was partially shielded by a paramedic.

The officer nodded grimly. 'Bit of a mess he is, sir. Would have been instantaneous.'

'A jumper?' Severus jerked his head towards the bridge.

'Ah, no. The driver of the train saw him come tearing down the embankment, as if he was running from something. Probably thought he could chance it across the line, but… well.'

Severus nodded dimly. The paramedics were packing their implements away. One turned to them, brandishing a leather wallet. The policeman took it and flipped through it.

'No cards; some coins… Hang on, what on earth is a _knut_?'

Severus stared hard at the wallet, his blood running quite cold. 'Some foreign currency, I expect…' He turned and moved towards the body lying crumpled by the side of the rails, bending his knees to get a closer look. The face was turned to the side, and covered in blood, but Severus would have recognised the iron grey hair easily enough. The shape of the nose looked familiar. The build of the man looked about right. Moreover, he recognised the robe he was wearing to be the one Selwyn had worn as a Death Eater; the robe he'd likely disappeared in those months ago.

'There is a name inscribed on the inside of the wallet—H. Selwyn. No other sign of identification, though.'

Severus had seen enough. They were simply too late—the bastard had finally defeated them. He took one last look at the body, unable to feel anything at the sight of it. But he knew what awaited him back up on the bridge, and for that he did feel something.

He started walking back down the track. The policeman called after him, but Severus ignored him. The Confundus charm would wear off, eventually, and he'd be forgotten about.

His steps were heavy as he climbed back up the embankment. _Damn Oakshott_! There was no doubt in his mind that Oakshott was responsible for driving Selwyn to his death. Had they chased him in their car? And where were they off to now? Wending their way back to London, no doubt, to congratulate themselves on a job well done.

Soon, as he knew he must, he came face to face with Granger, who stood on the road at the top, her hands clutched together anxiously.

'Well?'

He paused before her. 'I'm sorry,' he said simply.

And he _was_ sorry.

The colour immediately drained from her face and her lips began to shake. It can't be him,' she whispered, her breath catching in throat. 'It must be a mistake.'

He shook his head gently. Her face crumpled behind her hands, and when she removed them to look at him, he was sorry to see the distress spilling out from her eyes and down her cheeks.

'No,' she gasped, 'it _can't_ be.'

'All the evidence points to it being him,' he explained in as soft a tone as he could muster. 'I expect the Aurors will come to confirm it—Oakshott is probably on his way to inform them as we speak.'

She let out a harsh sob, and Severus found himself looking away, as if her anguish were somehow indecent to him, but he couldn't help but feel uncomfortable at it.

'But if he's dead, that means… Oh, God… I can't… I can't… I have to go, I'm sorry.'

Before he could react, she'd Disapparated—disappeared into thin air. He remained where he stood for several moments, looking into the space where she had been, and he felt… well, he wasn't sure how he felt.

He sighed loudly and looked up at the sky, as if for an explanation, but there was nothing forthcoming, and he could not stand there all day. What now?

_Go home_, was the answer loudest in his mind. There was nothing else to be done.

And after all, there was no reason why Oakshott or anyone should be watching out for him at his home now. No reason, at all.

It was over.

* * *

AN: Thanks for the reviews!

Incase anyone does not know, SOCO means Scene of Crime Officer.

'_But Severus, this is touching. Have you grown to care for the boy, after all?' _is a line from Deathly Hallows.


	13. Unlucky For Some

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling_

**13. Unlucky For Some**

Hermione sat by the bed with her arms folded across her stomach, hardly able to bring her eyes to look at the slumbering Ron. She felt like she'd failed him. Oh, she knew that technically it wasn't her fault—nothing about Ron's condition was her fault. Neither did any of the Weasley family blame her for failing to apprehend Selwyn alive. In fact, she considered that they thought the task had been too great for her in the first place.

But it hadn't been too great—she was sure of it. She was sure that Selwyn had been within their grasp, and now… he wasn't.

The Aurors had been at the hospital by the time she had arrived from the scene itself. They'd informed Molly and Arthur that it was likely Selwyn had been involved in a fatal accident. Hermione had scorned the term in her mind. It had been no accident, she was sure. Those Muggle detectives had chased him, uncaring of whether he lived or died.

Molly had simply cried, and Arthur had turned ashen.

Hours later, the Aurors returned to confirm matters, as she knew they would. Hermione had demanded to know how they could be sure it was Selwyn. _What if he has fooled us? _

She hated the subsequent expressions of pity on their faces. The body has been thoroughly checked for spells, they said. _There is no sign of magic on the body at all. _

'Where was his wand?' she had asked.

They said there was no reason to believe he had had one. Hermione had only laughed in response, hating their nonchalance .

She had wanted to see Selwyn for herself. She'd not known him, but she knew what he looked like. It didn't particularly surprise her that they refused her. Only officials and next of kin were permitted to see the body. Besides, they said the body was in a distressing state from the impact with the train, so they could not allow it.

Clinging onto any last shred of hope, she'd began mumbling vaguely about Muggles and DNA testing, but they'd baulked, claiming that she was taking things too far. Kinglsey Shacklebolt had appeared then, speaking calmly to her that he had seen the body and decided it was Selwyn. John Mortimer had also been brought down from Northumberland to identify his nephew.

_What if Mortimer is in on it?_

He regretted it, Kingsley said, but Selwyn really was dead.

Hermione had eyed them all with teary distrust. None of them had mentioned the Muggle detectives. None of them had questioned why on earth Selwyn should be hopping across railway lines. Maybe they did not know, themselves, but someone in the Ministry did. Someone, somewhere, knew very well what had been transpiring in recent months.

She considered having it out with them all there and then. But Harry had taken hold of her arm and the warning look in his eyes had checked her. He wanted to discuss things with her first.

A surprise had awaited her a couple of days later, however. Or rather, it was an expected surprise. She was given a summons from the Head of the Auror Office, requesting her presence, and she had defiantly sat in the office, knowing full well what was about to happen. A minister from the department responsible for co-operating with Muggles stood by.

Naturally, they'd begun by admonishing her for getting involved with matters that were 'highly sensitive and political'. Indeed, to hear the way they spoke, she should be grateful she and Professor Snape had not been arrested for obstructing 'matters of the state'.

Hermione had clenched her jaw; they'd not _obstructed_ anything.

And then they'd smoothly began to talk down the role of the Muggle detectives. _An element of co-operation was unavoidable, what with the likelihood of Selwyn lurking in the Muggle world._

_Oh, she'd said. We thought it was due to your incompetence._

It had been playing with fire. The two Ministry officials had looked at her with narrowed eyes and barely disguised impatience, but she knew that to an extent she had the upper hand. They didn't know, of course, that she and Snape had been present at the scene of Selwyn's demise, nor that they had seen Oakshott fleeing that scene. So, she knew not to believe them when they said it was an _element_ of co-operation. It was clearly more than that.

The Muggles were no mere bystanders in this piece. She would venture that they were, in fact, the ones orchestrating matters. Still, she knew that she was in no position to take on the ministers, at this juncture, anyway. She told them that she would not relay to anyone about the involvement of Muggle police. It was obvious that that was what the aim of the _chat_ was about. But her words to them, as she left, indicated her complete disbelief about all they had said.

_I've met Oakshott, and if you think for one moment I'm going to believe he's your lap dog, then you certainly have underestimated me_.

She hadn't heard anything from them since, but she wondered if Snape had been treated to the same performance. She almost wished he had been there with her; she imagined some of the cutting remarks he might have come out with. On the other hand she hoped they had left him alone. It would rankle him immensely to be summoned to the Ministry, or worse, have them turn up on his doorstep.

It had been many days now since the incident in Cumbria, and she spent many hours of her days sat, as she was now, in contemplation of Ron and his predicament.

She really did feel like she had failed him. Where would they be now, she wondered, if he had not been struck down? What would they be doing? What jobs would they have? Would they… She recalled often, of course, the kiss they had shared in the midst of the battle. Would they have started a relationship?

For many reasons, she tried not to think of such things, because sometimes she did not know how she felt about them, and it was easier to just concentrate on the most important matter at hand—to return Ron back to himself, for the sake of _all_ of his friends and family, not just her.

That prospect was now far bleaker. Still, she'd already thrown herself into the library, again, looking in even more minute detail at all that was written about the curse Selwyn had used. She looked at other curses that had similar effects; potions that induced similar reactions. Just because there was no cure beyond the caster removing the spell, did not mean there wasn't one. Everything is impossible until it is proved otherwise, and that would be her maxim for the foreseeable future.

Mrs Weasley appeared on the ward at that moment, and Hermione got to her feet. Molly gestured for her to sit back down, but Hermione shook her head.

'No, it's fine—I hog him too much.' She smiled gently.

She wandered towards the lift, intending to go outside for some fresh air. As the doors opened, out walked Neville.

She smiled genuinely in greeting, and they both stepped off to the side, to talk. She often saw him in St. Mungo's—he popped up to see Ron after visiting his parents. Her admiration for her former classmate had only grown in recent months. It was thinking of Neville, dutifully visiting his parents year on year, that gave her strength in times when she felt particularly disheartened. It was also a sober reminder that sometimes there just isn't an answer. It gave her a lot to think about.

She parted from Neville and proceeded down to the ground floor of the hospital and out into one of the courtyards. She sat on a bench and simply watched the plants flutter in the breeze for a moment.

There was another element to Selwyn's death that bothered her, and she'd been pondering over it a lot recently. Josiah Abbott. What had his part been? Where was he now—back at Thistledown? Or had Selwyn dispatched him once his usefulness had expired?

What could she do about it? She did not like to think that he would be just forgotten about. There was one other person who knew the story as well as she, and maybe a discussion with him about it would ease her mind.

The idea remained with her for the rest of the day, and after she left St. Mungo's, she Apparated north. The house was shrouded in darkness, but Hermione knew that was no indication of whether Snape was at home or not. His house seemed perpetually to be in darkness. She wondered if he would take umbrage at her turning up on his doorstep—she considered that he probably thought their acquaintance concluded. She liked to hope otherwise; she hoped he would listen to what she had to say, if not with eagerness, then at least with amenability.

She knocked on the door and waited with bated breath. She glanced around and noticed the net curtain twitch in a house on the opposite side of the street. Nowhere was exempt from nosy neighbours, it seemed.

The door opened and she smiled wanly at him. 'Hello.'

'Miss Granger,' he said, sighing. 'What… Do I even _want_ to know what it is that you are doing here?'

She couldn't help but feel faintly amused, very much despite herself. 'I'm sure you are very long-suffering, Professor. I have something I would like to discuss, if that is agreeable to you?'

'Very well,' he grumbled, standing aside.

She followed him into the small living room, whereupon he half-heartedly pointed at a chair for her to sit on. Every time she came into this room, she longed to study every aspect of it. But she kept her eyes focused where it would not be deemed unforgivably rude.

'How are you?' she asked sincerely, all the while knowing that she was unlikely to get a straight answer.

She was right.

'The point, Miss Granger,' he said impatiently.

She nodded to herself. 'All right… I don't know if you have heard, but the Aurors have confirmed beyond doubt that it was Selwyn on the railway line. Mortimer came down to identify him.'

A look passed over his face as if he was offended that his word had not been enough for her. In response, the strangeness of the whole incident hit her once more, and she couldn't stop herself.

'_How_ could he have let the Muggles get on his tail so easily? He was seen at his house—why would he risk that after all this time?'

These were just some of the questions that regularly pushed through her mind, questions which she had hoped to put behind her by now.

'I should say that the Aurors abandoning the case lulled him into a false sense of security, but then, we also have reason to believe he was aware of the Muggle involvement through his mother's paintings.'

'Exactly!' Selwyn was not that careless, she was sure of it.

Snape's expression became a tad impatient, and she considered that he too had probably worked his mind over the issue in the last few weeks. 'Miss Granger… is there any need to toil over this? To my own mind, it seems somewhat of an anticlimax for Selwyn to be killed in such circumstances. But even he had to put a foot wrong somewhere. I understand that it may be hard to accept, but the fact remains that Selwyn is dead.'

Hermione lowered her gaze to her hands and sighed. She hated hearing those words from anyone, but from him she found it less easy to doubt them. Still, it _was_ hard to accept, and every time she saw Ron in the hospital, it became harder. 'I know,' she said quietly. 'And actually, my purpose in coming here was not even to discuss the manner of his death.'

'What then?'

'I've been thinking about Josiah Abbott lately.'

An expression of confusion formed on Snape's face.

'We thought he was involved with Selwyn—but what happened to him? No one has mentioned him. What if Selwyn had him locked up somewhere?'

He shook his head. 'It is a bit late now, don't you think? It's been a fortnight since Selwyn's death. If he is contained somewhere, it is unlikely he is still alive.'

Hermione had been afraid of that. 'I told the Aurors about him, but in hindsight, I don't think they took much notice of me.' She shifted in her seat, forming her next words carefully. 'Look, some may say that Selwyn got his just-desserts, though I would say he got off lightly. For the moment, Ron can't be helped, but even if we are too late, I would at least like to make sure Abbott is found.'

His eyebrows drew together in a frown. 'You've given up on Weasley, then?'

'No,' said Hermione adamantly. 'Not at all. But let's face it, the prospects are not bright.' That was the first time she'd ever admitted such out loud. No one had said it at the hospital, even though she knew they were all thinking it.

He didn't say anything and Hermione took that to mean he agreed with her. She hadn't expected anything more, and she hadn't come here for his advice regarding Ron, but she felt a pang of upset inside, nevertheless, that he did not have an answer. It was irrational of her, but so often in the past he had seemed to have an answer for everything.

He spoke, and her thoughts returned to the original point of their conversation. 'You are convinced Abbott was an unwilling accomplice, then?'

'Aren't you?'

He shrugged. 'It seems likely, but it is only speculation. What do you propose? He could be anywhere.'

He thought she was being ridiculous, she realised. And, probably, he was right. Abbott could be anywhere.

'Miss Granger, I'd advise you to let matters lie. There is nothing further to be done.'

She wished she could feel some irritation at his dismissal of her. Indignation; anything. But she knew he was right. She should just accept it was finished. She could not take on the responsibility of finding Abbott, especially when they were not even certain if he had gone of his own accord or not. And she knew why she preoccupied herself with the issue—it kept her mind of the problems that awaited her at St Mungo's.

She picked at one of her fingernails, her gaze focused downwards on her lap. 'Yes,' she said quietly.

The only sound then was the crackling of the small fire in the grate, and she realised that she had no other reason for remaining there. She cleared her throat and reluctantly tugged her coat about her shoulders.

'Thank you, sir. I'd, ah, best be off, then.'

He nodded, and there was nothing else for her to do but get to her feet. She wished, suddenly, that he would ask her to stay to talk about… Well, what else was there? Their acquaintance had been based on Selwyn and she was sure he would not want to prolong it, now that their common interest was no longer relevant. Why it even mattered to her, she did not know—maybe she just wanted to talk to someone who did not perpetually remind her that Ron was lying comatose in a hospital bed.

Hermione bid Snape goodbye and received very little in reply. She closed his door behind her and stood on the step feeling even more deflated than when she'd arrived. Whatever she had wanted by coming here, she had not found it. She sucked in a lungful of air and started walking along the pavement, uncaring that she did not know where she was going.

Dusk was stretching across the sky, and the quiet terraced streets, if not a typical place she would choose to indulge in a bout of mindless wandering, actually leant themselves well to her purpose. She paid little attention to her surroundings, focused only on her thoughts.

She was afraid that, despite the evidence, the seemingly incontrovertible evidence, she could not accept Selwyn's demise. She had sense enough to know that she could not spend the rest of her life chasing shadows. They had a body whom several people had identified as Horatio Selwyn. Trained Aurors had checked the body for spells and enchantments and had found none. If that was not enough for her, what the hell would be?

Everyone else seemed prepared to accept it was over. Even the Weasleys' were beginning to resign themselves to the worst. She wished she could too.

The fact remained that something bothered her—something niggled at her in the back of her mind. She was sure that Abbott was the root of it. Abbott, this, as far as she could tell, unassuming Muggle whose past held links with the Selwyn family, but who she knew very little else about. Snape could be right; Abbott could be not the innocent bystander, but more the partner in crime.

Yet, if so, that was still a good reason to trace him, wasn't it? Not that he would be of any use to Ron, though. She came to a stop at a junction in the street, but did not cross the road. Even if Selwyn were really dead, she was curious enough to want to know the full story of his disappearance. Clearly, the mystery of Abbott's disappearance was key to that. Snape felt it was superfluous, well, she could understand that from his point of view. He was not as personally involved as she.

Deciding there and then what her next action would be, she glanced around and seeing no one watching her, she crossed the road and stepped into a bus shelter. A moment later, she was standing in Ardrossan—there was still time for her to make the last crossing over to Arran.

Hermione didn't stop to deliberate over the wisdom of what she was doing, as she knew she would likely end up talking herself out of it. However, sitting on the ferry, there was nothing much else for her to do _but_ think about it, and suddenly, she felt a little bit ridiculous.

For one thing, the evening was drawing late—she would have to create Portkey to get home. Another was that she did not even know what she was looking for. But it was an instinct that guided her, and was it not always said that instincts should be followed? In any case, it was justification enough for her for the time being.

On arrival at Brodick, she Apparated to Blackwaterfoot and walked the short distance to Thistledown cottage.

The house was, as Snape's had been, shrouded in darkness, but this time she really felt there was no one at home. The sight of the shadowed windows gave her pause, and she shook her head, admonishing herself. What if someone saw light from her wand and decided to investigate? She'd had no qualms about invading Selwyn's privacy, but she did not feel entirely comfortable about rooting about this Muggle's house. She hadn't forgotten that she had snuck into the house before, but this was different.

But now… it just didn't feel right. She leant on the gate and closed her eyes, thinking hard. Was there anything else she could do? Soon, she remembered something. She looked in the direction of the village and wondered about what that lady had said to them before—about the postmaster knowing Abbott fairly well. Maybe her time would be better spent finding this man, instead of house-breaking.

She forced herself to walk away from the cottage and down the road into the village itself. The Post Office would be shut at this time in the evening, but she considered there must be somewhere where she could enquire as to who exactly the postmaster was.

She spied the Post Office on the corner of a street and noticed that the shop within which it was located was open. Picking up her step, she headed towards it. The woman behind the counter eyed her suspiciously when she asked after the postmaster, as it was obvious Hermione knew nothing about him, not even his name. But when she explained that she was a 'relative' of Josiah Abbott, the shopkeeper nodded and gave her a name and an address

The walk was a short one. She came upon a row of small houses and stopped outside a blue-painted front door. Upon knocking, the door was opened by what Hermione would deem to be a man in his late fifties. His expression was blank as he surveyed her.

'Can I help?'

'My name is Hermione Granger,' she said. 'I have been trying to get in touch with Mr Abbott of Thistledown cottage, up on the moor, but it looks like no one is at home. I was told you may be able to help.'

'Oh aye, and what might you want with him?'

'Mr Abbott and I have never met, but I am student of genealogy, you see, and I recently discovered some familial links between he and myself.' Hermione decided to chance her arm further. 'I wrote to him some weeks ago and believed myself to be expected.'

The expression on the Macpherson's face darkened and he stood aside. 'You'd better come in, then, Miss.'

Hermione smiled gratefully and she was shown into a small sitting room. The telly was turned off by its owner, and then he spoke.

'Old Joe's been missing for a good three weeks or so, I reckon,' he stated without preamble.

'_Missing_?'

'Aye lass. Never left the house, he did—too much of a recluse. Yet, now he's up and gone without a word to me. In my opinion, something fishy has happened, but the police don' believe me.'

Hermione schooled her expression into one of surprise. 'So… you would have expected to have been informed if Mr Abbott had had reason to go somewhere?'

'O' course, besides, he had nowhere to go. For years I have been taking shopping and supplies up there. I'm telling you, he had no reason to go anywhere.'

'Well, it certainly sounds like something has happened. But, what? There was nothing in his behaviour to suggest anything wrong?' Had he noticed that there may have been another person living in Thistledown?

'No nothing, Miss. I've got a key to the cottage, and all his stuff is still there—his clothes, like.'

'I understood that he is not in the best of health…'

Macpherson shook his head firmly. 'No, and not merely physically, he's a bit, well, slow, up here.' He pointed a finger to his temple.

'I see.'

'Had an illness when he were a baby. Nice enough chap as you will ever find, but he's been on his own ever since his parents passed on, years ago. Bit of a tragic past, he has—his father was killed in action during the war, when he were only a wee bairn. His mother lived well enough into her old age, though.'

'Do you think it would help if I went to the police, as well?'

Macpherson's expression lightened. 'Aye, that's a good idea, Miss!'

Hermione smiled, happy to help. If she also reported him missing, maybe it would encourage more action the part of the police, though she knew that they would not know the full story.

It occurred to her then that she had no idea what Abbott looked like. She'd seen no photographs in Thistledown cottage. 'I don't suppose you have a photograph of him?'

Macpherson shook his head negatively. 'No, I… Oh, hang on, here is a little passport-type photo that I had from him—I help him fill in all his forms, you know.'

He rummaged around in a drawer and came back with a little square photograph. Hermione only glanced briefly at it as she took it from him, but what she saw made her heart stop. Lest Macpherson notice her sudden preoccupation, she hurriedly placed the photo in her pocket. She was seeing things; she must be.

She forced out a shaky breath. 'Thank you, very much. I will keep in touch with regard to how I get on with the police. I really do hope we find him safe and well.'

She left the house and headed straight for the orange glow of a nearby lamp post. Surreptitiously producing her wand, she enlarged the small photo of Abbott. Her heart thudded in her chest and her mind was filled with complete shock as she tried to comprehend what her eyes were seeing.

How the… It _couldn't_ be. She could not be seeing this correctly. She closed her eyes and opened them again, expecting the face before her to have changed.

But it was there in her hands, literally staring her in the face.

What on earth was the connection? What could it mean?

She closed her eyes again and thought back over every scrap of information that she could remember about Selwyn. And then an answer hit her. Pieces of the puzzle fell into place almost seamlessly, and the final picture seemed to descend on her like a ton of bricks, so much so that she almost staggered with disbelief. If she surmised correctly, then she had proof of a years old conspiracy so clever, and duplicitous, and, yes, _shocking_, that couldn't help but think she was mistaken.

And there were so many details that were as yet unclear to her, the hows and the whys and the wherefores, but if the gist she had determined was true, then…

Her heart bubbled with excitement, and without wasting a moment more, she Disapparated into the night.

It was, in hindsight, not the wisest decision she could have made. The distance her Disapparation covered was evidently rather large and she felt suddenly drained as she appeared once again on Snape's doorstep. Nevertheless, it was with enthusiasm that she knocked on his door.

After a moment, it was wrenched open violently. 'Merlin… What on earth do you want now, you annoying girl?'

He could have called her a whole list of unsavoury epithets and she wouldn't have cared. Her spirits were ablaze and she was sure they would not be dampened tonight.

'Sir, I can't believe it… I just _can't_…' Her voice was full of wonder.

His dark eyes narrowed into a frown. 'What—are you drunk, Granger?'

She _was_ rather swaying on the spot. 'Oh, no, I just Apparated all the way from the Isle of Arran…'

Surprise flashed briefly on his face. 'Get in and sit down,' he said with a huff, not looking at all pleased.

But Hermione could not sit down. She stood in the middle of the room, hardly able to contain her anticipation. As soon as he faced her she thrust out the photograph she held tightly in her hand.

'Look!' she burst out excitedly.

He snatched the photo grimly and studied it with an air of long-suffering disinterest. His demeanour only made her smile wider.

'It's a rather gormless picture of Selwyn—why are you showing me this?'

'It's not Selwyn,' she said fervently.

'Miss Granger, _this_ is Selwyn.' He spoke so adamantly and it was exactly what she wanted to hear, because it went some way to confirming her suppositions and the reasoning behind Selwyn's actions.

'Look harder, sir,' she urged, and in her excitement, she stepped up to him and touched his arm so she could see the photo herself. 'This is…'—she could hardly get the words out—'This is a picture of Josiah Abbott.'

'You are mistaken…' He trailed off, confused at her firm shake of her head.

'This _is_ Abbott. Now, who but a relation could have such a striking resemblance to Selwyn? Who, but a brother, maybe…'

'_A brother_?'

She looked at him, hoping that he would not laugh when he heard her next words. 'Sir, I have good reason to believe that this, this man who is known as Josiah Abbott… I mean to say, providing there are no illegitimate Selwyn's anywhere, what if this is actually _Arthur_ Selwyn?'

She held her breath at her pronouncement, watching him as he looked from the photo in his hand, to her, his eyes wide.

'He's dead…'

'Is he?' she asked quietly, doubt audible in her tone.

'You think it was this man who was found on the railway line?'

It was a tentative nod she gave in response. Oh, she knew she could have got this all wrong. She knew she could have _seriously_ got all this wrong, but what she had in her hands was a _possibility_—an element of doubt. A flurry of hope rushed through her as she considered that this could potentially mean all might not be yet lost for Ron, and it was quickly followed by a warm feeling that was induced by the fact that Severus Snape was looking at her like he'd never seen her before.

And then, as deep down she had secretly feared must happen, a shadow fell over his face and he looked away from her. Her spirits, formerly aflame, now flickered.

'Miss Granger…'

Her stomach clenched and she took the photo off him, clutching it to her. 'Please don't…' she said, trying to keep a tremor out of her voice.

She should have known he'd have an answer for this.

* * *

AN: Thanks for reading, and I appreciate the comments that have been left : )


	14. The Light in the Dark

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**14. The Light in the Dark**

Truth be told, he'd found himself to be at a peculiar loss this week. It wasn't that he missed Granger, or missed traipsing about some God-forsaken Scottish island; he just felt the loss of occupation. For the first time in nearly eight months, he'd had a taste of it, and he was beginning to think it might have done him some good. Actually, he knew it had, and it did not come as a surprise. He wasn't stupid—it was basic common sense that occupying one's mind should help keep the misery at bay. He fully recognised this, but he had grown lazy—had not sought to continue this practice of being busy following the conclusion of Selwyn's mysterious disappearance.

He told himself the reasons for which were simply that he just didn't have anything to do. He would not brew potions just to see them sit inert on a dusty shelf. The thought of going outside did not make his gut clench with dread in quite the same way as it had before, but there were still places he wished to avoid. And once they were deducted from the equation, there was nowhere else. And yet, he had to wonder if it was not more that he did miss wallowing in his own guilt—like it was a disservice to not think on it at least once a day.

But he had not relapsed quite so much back into tiring lethargy—he was trying harder to stave off the darkness in his mind that brought with it all the memories and feelings that he, it was true, hated and… loved.

He had turned to reading. There was an element of pointlessness in it, as he had read every single book in his house at least once before. Certain pitfalls were also not quite to be avoided, either. There were always books that sparked certain memories or held certain connotations. Books Albus had given him; books Minerva had given him. Books his mother had passed down to him. Books he had smuggled out to share with Lily everything she'd wished to know about magic; books they'd both studied from at Hogwarts. And yes, somewhere, under lock and key in the attic, were books the Dark Lord had given him. In that respect, it was rather a case of his passion for books triumphing over his conscience that he still retained them.

He wasn't picky about his topic of reading. His selection process was really, simply, luck of the draw. And if he sometimes stared at the same page of a book for an unlimited amount of time, or read a whole chapter and by the end forget what it was about, well, he couldn't help it.

Yet, here was Granger, again, disrupting his tenuously established routine, clearly unable to let matters rest, and apparently, he was now a fixture in those matters. She was sitting in a chair, staring glumly at that photograph, of which he had no idea how she'd obtained. She was convinced it proved Abott was actually a relation of Selwyn's, but he'd had to point out to her that it was possible Selwyn had stolen Abbott's identity, and had hoodwinked the Muggles in Blackwaterfoot into believing it.

She looked up from the photo. 'But… Ah, I see. I got this photograph from the postmaster; I was going to say how would Selwyn have known to switch these, but we don't know when this was taken. This could be a photo of Selwyn pretending to be Abbott. I get it.' She put a hand over her face and sighed at length.

Severus nodded. 'It could have been taken after the intrigue was complete.' The village was small, and Abbott a recluse—it would not be impossible for Selwyn to fool people into believing he was the man Josiah Abbott.

Her brow furrowed again. 'I agree that it is _possible_ that Selwyn has assumed Abbott's identity, but don't you agree that it could also be possible that this is not _Horatio_ Selwyn?'

She had a point. He took the photo off her and resolved to study it more closely than he had previously, speaking out his observations aloud. 'This man, Abbott we'll continue to call him, has a beard—Selwyn did not have one when he disappeared, but he could have grown one in the meantime. The man on the railway line had a beard very like this.' He looked at the hair; grey, as he remembered it, but it was possible the style was different. And the eyes were a familiar colour, but was it his imagination or were they less hard looking?

He had an idea. He Summoned his coat and rummaged through the pockets for a moment, picking out a small object. He enlarged it to its original size.

'What's that?' Granger enquired, getting to her feet.

He showed her. 'A photo of Selwyn—'

'Did you take that from his house?'

There was a faint smile on her face that he endeavoured greatly to ignore. Severus eyed the photo of Selwyn shaking hands with the Minister and aimed his voice to the very depth of nonchalance. 'I thought it might be useful, at some point.'

Her smile was perilously close to a smirk now. 'Ah, you see, I clearly recall you saying you did not want to be involved, and yet—'

'Miss Granger, may we get back to the point?'

She raised her hands in a sign of relenting. Severus glared at her before holding up the pictures side-by-side. How dare she question his motives!

'Even with the beard, they look very similar, indeed.'

'But the beard is also convenient, isn't it? On Abbott, here, it is thick and masks any possible differences around the jaw or mouth or whatever, which could have cast doubt on who the body on the line was. In my opinion, it also fits in with the image of a man on the run. You were not surprised to see it on the body on the railway?'

'No,' Severus admitted, a tad reluctantly. Could he have been wrong? Even with the beard, it _had_ looked like Selwyn, just as this photograph did.

She sat down again and he found himself following suit, frantically trying to recall every piece of detail of that scene on the railway. 'There was a lot of blood… it's possible I was mistaken.' Though, they would have cleaned the body up before Mortimer had identified him.

'Let us think for a moment,' said Granger, in what Severus had learnt was her 'practical' voice. 'It _is_ possible that Arthur Selwyn is not dead.'

She was looking at him as if she expected him to elaborate.

He nodded. 'If Abbott is Arthur Selwyn, then he is obviously a Squib. That the first-born son, the heir, was a Squib, would have been considered a disaster to Selwyn's father particularly. I don't think it's exaggerating to say Arthur would have been as good as useless to his father. So…'

He watched her face whiten. She, certainly, had never known any discord with her parents, he could tell.

'But what about his mother, Eliza, surely…?'

'From what we have learnt of her character, I would infer that she might have resisted such thinking, but she may have had no choice in the matter.'

'Would they have known he was a Squib at such an early age, though? I was under the impression that there was no way to tell.'

Severus paused to think. It was a pertinent question—there was no sure-fire way of determining magical ability in children. 'Purebloods often expect to see some sign of magic at an early age—it reinforces their sense of magical superiority, but Arthur Selwyn was reported to have caught Dragon Pox—'

'I was told Abbott had an illness as a baby! The effects of which stayed with him into adulthood,' she interrupted hurriedly.

Another possible connection, then, in favour of Abbott being Arthur Selwyn. 'Well… It is possible that illness at an early age, or a birth defect, can affect the development of a child's magic, much as it might affect the development of any function in the body.'

'Perhaps they did not want to take their chances, or perhaps they knew he would grow to be a Squib, and a child not in full health, in some way… But that's awful.' Her expression was full of distaste.

He was quite sure the Selwyn's were not the only family to have taken such action to hide a family 'shame'. Back when Purebloods were in the majority, it had probably been commonplace. 'My mother was disowned by her family for marrying a Muggle.' He shrugged his shoulders minutely. 'It happens.'

She seemed to freeze, and he looked uncomfortably into the fireplace, unsure what it was that had compelled him to say such a thing to her. He sought to draw attention from it.

'In effect, it would not have been impossible for them to fabricate a certificate of death. No one would have doubted the child's supposed suffering of Dragon Pox—no one would have dared go near for fear of contracting the disease. The burial would have been private—no one would know the coffin was empty.'

'And, instead, they sent the child to live with Eliza Mortimer's old friend… Oh! Do you recall Mortimer commented that did not immediately hear of Josiah's birth? Merlin, it all fits!'

Her eyes sparkled with triumph, and while he was beginning to think she had got it right, he found it hard to forget caution.

'How would Selwyn have found out the truth about his brother, when all efforts would have been to conceal it?' Her exultant expression faded slightly. 'But I suppose if he had found it out, it makes sense he would go to him. He probably spun a tale to poor Abbott, who probably knew nothing of magic or of his past.'

He was vaguely alarmed to suddenly see a sheen of tears form in her eyes, and she raised one of her hands to press to her mouth. 'Oh God,' she let out in a rather strangled whisper. 'Selwyn actually _led_ his own brother to his death…'

And that was the difference between the two of them, he realised. She was obviously disturbed by such behaviour, and he fully recognised that it was despicable behaviour, but he wasn't surprised by it, not at all. He wondered if he might be ashamed that he was not as shocked as she, for he found he could not quite look at her.

'The Muggles didn't get lucky—I bet Selwyn made sure his brother was seen by them, and now the case is closed, he can disappear into obscurity forever more.'

It sounded plausible. In fact, it sounded more than plausible—it sounded cunning enough for Selwyn to have come up with. And the more he looked at the photo she'd brought, which at first glance he'd automatically dismissed as Selwyn himself, the more he found he doubted it. He was beginning to see that there might be some differences between the two photographs they had, and she was right, the beard would hide certain things—the shape of the mouth, and so on. With regard to personal pride, Severus inwardly grimaced at the fact that he had fallen for Selwyn's ruse. It left an element of distaste in his mouth.

'Poor Abbott… Arthur…' she muttered to herself.

So it appeared things were not quite at a close. Still, they were in a good position. As far as he could tell, the Ministry and the Muggles were convinced Selwyn was done and dusted.

'Miss Granger, this is still all conjecture on our part…'

She straightened her posture and placed her hands flat on her knees—ponderous. 'I feel that we _must_ work from the hypothesis that Abbott and Horatio Selwyn are not one and the same. After all, don't you think it is uncharacteristically careless of Selwyn to have let himself get spotted at his _home_ when he knew it was being watched?'

Severus nodded, only a bit reluctantly.

'So, the Abbott's would have had to have registered Arthur Selwyn as Josiah Abbott. How did they account for the fact that they suddenly had a three year old child? I would be interested in seeing if there is a record of them officially adopting him—I suppose the Selwyn's would have helped fabricate the paperwork.'

'Remember, Mortimer mentioned that Eliza often wrote and visited the Abbotts. If we could find any correspondence from that time, it could help. Though, admittedly, I can't see Selwyn leaving much evidence about, unless he did not know it existed in the first place.'

She made a noise of agreement. He noticed that there was a faint gleam of excitement evident in her eyes, and he was not sure how he felt about it. It was apparent from her presence in his house that she expected his co-operation. He did not intend to withhold it, but he couldn't help but feel irked by her presumptuousness. He wasn't convinced the effort on his part was worth it. What was in it for him, really?

'I had the Head of the Auror Office here, the other day,' he announced crisply.

She was momentarily startled. 'Oh dear; yes, I had wondered, because I had a little chat with them, as well.'

'I think they believe it is I who has encouraged you in all this…' And it annoyed him.

'I'm sorry about that,' she said quickly. 'Did they… Well, they didn't threaten you in any way?'

'Let us say they made it clear that it would be in my own interests to let matters… lie…'

He knew the Ministry were concerned that he was rather more interested in helping Selwyn, than Weasley. The idea was laughable. Selwyn would like as much kill him on sight if they crossed paths.

But it was as if he wanted to impress upon her the trouble she had put him to, when, really, he could not give two hoots about the Ministry. And yet, thanks were not what he wanted; in fact, just the thought of it made him uncomfortable. She looked suddenly bothered, and he found himself wanting to make light. He got to his feet, a vague scowl on his face. 'Anyway, the only to thing to fear from the Ministry is their incompetence. The only thing we've ever been able to rely on them for is to fiddle while Rome burns.' He rested an elbow on the mantelpiece and touched his chin, thinking of how completely easy it had been for the Ministry to crumble to Voldemort. 'Who knows what they are up to now…' he muttered.

It would be a huge blow to the Ministry for them to prove that they'd got it completely wrong—had been completely fooled by Selwyn. He very well may not give two hoots about the establishment itself, but he did care about the Wizarding world. Even he, in his self-imposed exile, could see that the last thing that was needed was a scandal to set back the tenuous calm that had settled on the Magical community.

'If our suppositions are proved correct,' he said, turning towards her, 'the consequences could be far-reaching.'

She bit her lip and nodded. 'I'm prepared to stay silent on the matter of the Muggles, if need be.'

She understood that it would be the interference of the Muggles coming out that would inflame matters the most. Severus was still unsure as to the depth of their involvement in matters of the Ministry.

'Very well—what do you have in mind to do next?'

He was not surprised to hear that she already knew exactly what she wanted to do next. Not one bit.

And so, some hours later, they were on the move again.

He'd had enough of Scotland over the years, Severus decided. There was no particular reason for it, it was just his automatic reaction to finding himself increasingly being dragged there by Granger. It was where they were now—yet again making the journey over to the Isle of Arran. Perhaps it was the reminder that Hogwarts was practically only up the road that made him frown every time he clapped eyes on barren Scottish peaks and rough churning waters. And even as the thought struck him, he was reminded that it was true—Hogwarts was really not so very far away, up in the Highlands. Arran would have been the perfect place for Selwyn to flee to.

In any case, they were headed back to Abbott's cottage to search for any sign that he was in actual fact a Selwyn. Photographs of him as a young man—any photographs, in fact; a birth certificate; an adoption certificate… Anything that could be conclusive, but he did not think either of them were highly optimistic in that respect. An adoption certificate might not prove Abbott was Arthur Selwyn per se—just that he was adopted. Plus, he was pretty certain Selwyn would have covered his tracks well, even going as far as to seize any official documentation that could be accused of being a fabrication.

He'd been informed they would try their luck and go and visit this 'Macpherson', to see exactly what he knew of Abbott's past.

Granger was unusually quiet, and he wondered if that might mean she was nervous or uneasy. He supposed she was worried that this line of discovery they were now following would also turn out to be a dead end. He had no doubt he was eternally pessimistic, but he did wonder if they would ever get anywhere.

The wards that the Aurors had put on the cottage were still in place, so they Apparated as far as they could, and then walked the rest of the way.

'There was no one here when I came here yesterday, but I suppose we should knock first, just in case.'

They walked up the path to the front door, and he stood by while Granger lifted the knocker. The sound echoed loudly for a moment, and then there was nothing. He gave a nod when she looked at him, and she took out her wand, aiming it at the lock, while he glanced towards the gate in case anyone should walk past.

They both flinched when a clear noise could be suddenly heard from within the house. Severus wrapped his hand around his wand and edged towards the nearest ground floor window. A net curtain hung across the glass, however, and he could not make anything out.

'Let's try around the back,' whispered Granger.

They moved slowly around the side of the house, and were about to round the corner to the back, when a piercing bang rang out causing them both to jump violently. Severus cursed loudly, while Granger let out a surprised squeak.

'Be careful where you step, Snape, Miss Granger, or I might get you this time.'

It was Oakshott, and he had fired an actual shot at them. Severus frantically tried to establish where Oakshott was, and then there was a noise above them. Severus spun round and aimed his wand upwards, a spell shooting immediately from its tip, but to his amazement, a Shielding spell flashed around Oakshott and the spell ricocheted away.

Oakshott sat perched on the windowsill of an upstairs window, the window wide open, and the gun he held aimed downwards at them. 'Don't do that again, eh?'

'What do you want?' Granger asked, a note of trepidation audible in her voice.

'I want you two to go away from here and never return. I want you to forget that anything has ever gone on here. I want you to forget about me; I want you to forget about Abbott, and I want you to forget about Selwyn.'

The detective's expression was blank, and to Severus' mind, rather familiar.

'Otherwise?'

'Otherwise,' said Oakshott slowly, 'there will be consequences delivered upon you that I am sure you would rather avoid, if you get my drift. Now, it's up to you, but you have about ten seconds to get out of here.' He smiled wolfishly.

Severus wanted to curse him again, and he was about to when Granger grasped his arm. 'Let's go,' she said urgently, her tone brooking no argument.

Severus grit his teeth, grabbing her arm, and they took off. Oakshott laughed behind them as they headed for the nearest point beyond the wards from which they could Apparate. A shot ran out and Severus flinched, as if expecting to be struck. They moved beyond Oakshott's range, around the back of the cottage, but just when they thought they'd lost him, he appeared at a different window.

'Oh, just a little parting _shot_, Snape!'

And as they were reaching the edge of the garden, another shot rang out, but this time Severus felt a hot sear of pain across his upper arm. He yelped, feeling his legs weaken with shock and he stumbled to the ground.

Dimly he heard Granger cry out, 'Sir!'

He blinked away the haze at the edge of his mind and realised that he was not mortally wounded. 'It's my… I'm… We must continue.'

He brought his injured arm close to his body and found his other being seized by his companion. She hauled him to his feet, but Merlin, his legs felt like jelly. He was reminded, suddenly, of when he'd collapsed from Nagini's bite, and his stomach clenched painfully.

Granger dragged him along the remaining distance until they were safe to Apparate. 'Bastard!' she hissed, looking back towards the house, flinging a spell towards it. Then they were both gone.

She Apparated them into a room, of which the main furnishing was a bed. He sank onto it gratefully and leant his head forward onto his hand, focused only on breathing. He was aware of Granger next to him, also breathing loudly, and he thought she'd probably overstretched herself Apparating again.

'Sir, we need to—'

He shook his head. 'Give me a minute.'

All the strength from his body had fled. But the shock of the shot hitting him was nothing compared to visions of that snake biting it's fangs into his neck. He swallowed against the sickness in his throat. More than his strength had bled out of his body that night. He lifted a hand and wiped at his brow, which had begun to perspire.

'Sir.' Her voice was at his side again, and he reluctantly looked at her.

'There's blood all over your arm, sir. You should go to hospital.'

The feel of the warmth trickling down his arm brought him back to himself. 'No… it is but a flesh wound—the bullet only grazed me.'

'It's more than that, but I will tend to it, if you like?'

What else was there? 'Fine, as long as you know what you are doing.'

'I will return in a moment.'

She disappeared from the room, and in a bid to ignore the steady throb of his wound, he looked around his surroundings. He was uncomfortably aware that it was a bedroom, not especially big, and rather dimly lit by one small lamp in the corner.

'Where are we?' he demanded, when she returned.

She placed a bag of cotton wool, and a bottle, onto the bed, and then turned to conjure a bowl of water. 'My house—or my parents' house, to be precise. I thought it best to come here as no one, including Oakshott, knows where it is. At least, I hope he doesn't.' She placed a Locking and Silencing charm on the room. 'I think it's best my parents do not know we are here.'

Understatement of the day, certainly.

'They are not fully aware… Well, yes, best to keep quiet,' she bit her lip ruefully.

He lifted his coat away from his shoulders with a wince and pulled his injured arm out of the sleeve. She approached him with her wand in hand.

'Um…' She hovered over his upper arm, as if deciding how best to get to it, and he looked to the other side of the room, clenching his jaw, wishing he was anywhere but there.

In the end, she tore the arm of his jumper where it had split open, pulling it gently away from where it was sticking to his skin with blood. It was a good call—he was whipping off his clothes for no one. Momentarily, he felt wet cotton wool wiping away the mess on his arm. The wound pulsed at each touch and he curled one of his hands into a fist.

'What was Oakshott playing at?' she said with great disbelief. 'Do you think it is Selwyn's doing?'

'Unless we are missing something vital, I think it must be that Selwyn had Oakshott under the Imperius curse.'

'Was Selwyn _there_, do you think?'

His head throbbed with each question she asked. 'Miss Granger, I really don't know, but you surely saw the Shield charm, and unless Oakshott is a wizard masquerading as a Muggle...'

She took the hint and remained quiet while she continued the cleansing of the wound. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her examine the bottle she'd brought, and he looked at her fully.

'What is that?' he questioned sharply.

'Antiseptic—Muggle, but works just as well…'

He took the bottle roughly off her and examined it. 'Full of chemicals, I see.' He handed it back to her. She said nothing.

A painful sting a few seconds later told him she'd applied it. He swallowed down a curse.

'All right, I'll close the wound now. It's fairly deep, but should heal well.'

His arm burned hotly as the flesh knit back together.

'I think it best that I bandage your arm for the time being, as the wound will still be healing and the skin will be tender…'

_I've healed worse wounds than this! _He wanted to snap at her, irritated by her tone that was pitched as if she were talking to someone who'd only just learnt to tie his own shoelaces. The only thing to be said for her was that she was efficient, and before long, she was collecting up her materials and retreating. The pressure of the bandage was not too tight, and satisfied, he set about mending the tear in his coat with his wand, before slipping back into it.

Evidently she saw the action, for she decided to speak out against it. 'I really think that we should remain here for the time being, you know. I will be back in a minute.'

Before he could reply, she'd opened the door and stepped quietly through it. He stood up and lifted his wand, intending to Disapparate away, but even as he did so, he could sense anti-Apparation wards on the house. What right had she to keep him here? He sat back down and endeavoured to ignore the throbbing in his arm.

The door opened and she came back inside. 'Here's the _Prophet_, if you want something to read, and I brought some of my father's whisky. I thought it might help for the… shock.'

He glared at her. The _shock_?

'Well, you were practically shot,' she said uncomfortably, turning to the dresser and pouring out a glass. She brought the glass round his side of the bed, and then she removed to a chair in the corner of the room.

Still, he glared at her, hardly able to grasp what she was about. She opened her own newspaper, but it wasn't long before she raised her eyes from it, able to sense his stare.

'I'm sorry. I realise this is probably the last place you'd like to be. But sir, Oakshott could have killed us. Yes, I want to find Selwyn and get Ron back to health, but I would like to do it without either of us getting hurt in the process. We cannot risk Selwyn sending Oakshott to finish the job. We need to step back for a moment and rethink our strategy.'

Severus sighed, unable to fault her logic. Still, his voice was full of irritation when he spoke. 'I was unaware we had a _strategy_.' He picked up the _Prophet_, indicating he would say no more on the matter. If they'd had a bloody strategy he wouldn't be stuck in a bedroom with her with his arm hurting like the Devil. Still, a drop of whisky might help in that respect, at least.

He had hardly seen a copy of the _Daily Prophet _in all the time that had elapsed since the end of the war. His avoidance of it had been borne partly from a desire to ignore everything, but also because of his long-standing derision for the newspaper in general. It seemed, however, that reading it now was the only distraction open to him. He opened it with a belligerent sounding snap.

It was full of the usual rubbish, and he passed many of the pages with nary a glance. One item caught his attention, however, and he'd spoken aloud about it before he could check himself.

'Malfor Manor is up for sale?'

Granger looked up from her reading. 'Didn't you know? Draco has had to sell off the family silver to cover costs incurred by his father's conviction, and so on. Personally, I'm not sure who on earth would want to buy that place after all that went on there.'

He did not imagine that she shivered. 'Lucius did not manage to worm his way out of Azkaban, then?'

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'No… How could you not have heard about _that_? There was a huge fuss about it at the time.'

'You forget,' he said succinctly, turning the page. 'I did not know of Weasley's predicament, either.'

So Lucius was in Azkaban; he could not find it within himself to care. He flung the paper down onto the bed and drained the remains of the whisky. He spied the bottle sitting on the dressing table, but he would not ask for it. He glanced at the walls around him and wondered what the hell he was doing allowing himself to remain here.

'Miss Granger, you have told me very little of the details of Weasley's incapacitation.' To be fair to her, he hadn't actually asked for them before. Clearly the discomfort of being trapped in this room had disposed him to be loquacious. Or maybe his near-brush with a bullet had unsettled him more than he knew.

She folded up her paper, and he suddenly regretted opening his mouth. It looked like he was in for a dissertation on the ills of Ronald Weasley.

'Well, in essence, he is in a prolonged state of somnolence—nothing more. He sleeps, he doesn't move—not one bit. There is nothing to suggest there is anything else wrong with him. The effect is a bit like he has taken the Draught of the Living Dead.'

'I see.'

'One minute he was fine, and the next…'

'Of course, you have no _actual proof _that Selwyn is responsible for it…'

She hesitated. What perverse irony it would be, he realised, were it to transpire that they'd attributed the responsibility wrongly. He knew his reason in pointing this out was to goad her. If she would imprison herself with him, then she would deal with the consequences.

'It has to be him,' she said firmly. 'People witnessed the curse being thrown at Ron.'

He shrugged.

'Besides, there are other things Selwyn should be brought to account for, not just for Ron,' she said defensively. 'I can't get what he did to Abbott out of my head. Whether Abbott was his brother or not, he can't get away with it.'

Severus huffed under his breath and shifted his injured arm, which was already beginning to feel stiff.

'What?' she asked, bristling.

'I'm just preparing myself for another moral homily on justice—you have an almost utopian view on it, you know.'

She looked like she was steeling herself with an element of long-suffering. 'Would you care to elaborate?'

'Certainly—I think I touched upon it before; you seem to feel that justice is an inevitability, a product of some karmic force, or tosh like that.'

She folded her arms across her stomach. 'Oh yes, I am aware that you think I have a naïve, idealistic view of the world, but you are mistaken. I don't _assume_ that justice is a given, but to believe in it, and to want to fight for it—that is not naiveté. And if it is, well then, I would rather be that than… than cynical.'

'Is it cynicism? Or is it _realism_?'

She fixed him with a look. 'Maybe it's neither; maybe it's just you being biased by your own experiences.'

Severus sat up straighter. 'My _own_ experiences…?' he repeated slowly, a hint of steely challenge in his voice.

'Yes—I think you feel guilty because you did not go to Azkaban yourself. You think you have escaped justice.'

Her words were like an icy hand around his throat and he could not speak for a moment. He simply stared at her.

'You wanted to go to Azkaban, did you? The Ministry did not think it was warranted. For someone who does not subscribe to karma, you seem to spend an inordinate amount of time thinking on what you feel should come to you.'

She sucked in a deep breath and got to her feet, tugging at her hair with discomfort. Her self-consciousness did not register with him. He was too transfixed by her words. Why was he never prepared for moments like this when she spoke in such a… Well, it felt almost brutal to him, at times. But instead of shouting at her for talking of things that did not concern her, as he had done before, he found he wanted to defend himself.

He was _right_ to think as he did—he knew it, and he wanted her to see it too.

'That is my point,' he said quietly, and she spun round, mildly surprised that he had not exploded. 'It doesn't matter what the Ministry thinks. I know, you know, everyone knows, that I have done things no one should be allowed to get away with.' He looked at her with a hard expression. 'But I escaped death—where is the justice in that? Indeed, I cannot be thankful for it. But it goes to prove that no matter how hard you try, Selwyn may never ever be caught and punished.'

'You wish you had died in the Shrieking Shack?'

'Yes,' he said tightly, unafraid to admit it out loud, even to her.

She stared at him for the longest time, and then her expression turned into one of hurt almost, and it unsettled him. 'So why don't you end it yourself, then? Enact justice yourself?' She looked genuinely upset.

He was beginning to feel highly uncomfortable at the direction of the conversation now—he felt boxed in, physically and mentally. But he forced himself to speak in as aloof a tone as he usually employed. 'Suicide,' he said languidly, and her complexion paled. 'I cannot count that as justice, for it means that I would have a choice as to the where, the when, and the how, of my demise. The people who died in the war, they had _no choice.'_

'As much as you would like to think otherwise, you were not responsible for every death that occurred.'

He sent her a flippant look. 'You only have to be responsible for one.' Clearly, she just did not understand. So he might not have been personally responsible for every single death, but what about collective responsibility? In the months he had spent agonising over every little detail, it was the conclusion that he had come to believe. The Death Eaters had a collective responsibility for the ills they had enabled Voldemort to wreak. And he'd been absolved of his part, on account of his _motivation_.

Suddenly, she was kneeling on the edge of the bed, and he had the strongest urge to get up and move away, but her next words arrested him.

'Dumbledore had a choice,' she said gently. 'Dumbledore chose the where, the when, and the how. The question is, did you have a choice?'

His heart thudded so loudly, he ridiculously wondered if she might hear it even from where she was. 'I did have a choice,' he managed to get out in a voice that was only partially strangled.

'A choice that would have resulted in death. That might as well have been suicide. Instead, you did something that was awful, in that Dumbledore even asked it of you in the first place, but it was still brave and—'

He found the strength from somewhere to fly to his feet and march as far away from her as the size of the room would allow. His courage had always been a point of inward personal pride—his one redeeming feature, he had considered. But still, it was one of the contradictions of his person that he longed to keep that part of his character hidden. And he hated for it to be pointed out to him, because it made him feel ashamed. Bravery was not noble when you were summoning within yourself enough hatred to kill someone.

'Do not go any further,' he said flatly. He looked out of the window, where the sky was now darkening to pitch black and the only light was the dim lamp she had switched on in the corner of the room.

'Sir, there's something I think you should know about that night in the Shrieking Shack.'

'What about it?' He turned to her, unable to deny any curiosity on his part.

She was sitting cross-legged on the bed now, and she looked indecisive. 'You see, when we left after… after, um, collecting your memories, I sent my Patronus to the nearest Auror to inform them that you were in the Shack. I never thought they would find you alive… When I found out that they had, I was relieved, I admit it.'

So that was what had happened. '_You_…' Merlin, he should have known it would be a busybody like her involved! He laughed bitterly. 'Well, you have my eternal thanks, Miss Granger.'

A voice in his head reminded him that if he hadn't forced that antidote down his throat with his last ounce of strength, the Auror would have still found him dead. Yet, if she hadn't interfered in the first place…

'Perhaps it _is_ justice that you did not allow me to go gentle into my goodnight,' he mused. He did not believe that it was, not really, but there was a certain irony in it that he liked.

What did it matter now, anyway? He was here, and that was that. He exhaled a sigh. She was glaring at her hands.

'I've said to you before that punishment is not always warranted. You scoffed at my idea of reparation, but don't you think that making _good_ use of the chance at life you have been given, rather than wasting it on guilt, especially misplaced guilt, would be a worthwhile endeavour? I mean, what about your _own_ justice—justice for yourself? And don't say you don't deserve any, because we both know it isn't true. You just need to get that idea into your head and _deal_ with it.'

She had a nerve, no doubt about it. Why did she always turn his mind into more of a jumble than it already was? He wasn't quite sure what to make of her words. He wasn't sure he wanted to be influenced by her. He sat down in the chair she had vacated and picked up the newspaper she had abandoned. He would not, could not, say another word on the matter. He would ignore her if he had to.

Minutes passed before she spoke again, and when she did it was in a quiet, strained voice. 'Well, sir, I think we should recharge our batteries for a few hours and then rethink our apparently non-existent strategy.'

He remained defiantly engrossed in the stories before him. For a long time, he hardly dared look up from his reading, but when he finally did, she appeared to have fallen asleep. He could undo the Locking charm on the door, he knew it without even trying. He could then sneak easily out of the house and Apparate away. So what if Oakshott, or Selwyn, for that matter, were lurking about? He was in a mind as to want to throw a few tough hexes about, and they would be more than satisfying targets.

But instead, he found the quiet that had descended on the room to be soothing, and that allowed him to think on something else he was feeling. Underneath the resentment he had for her continuing fixation with drawing attention to, and effectively undermining, all of his beliefs, motivations, and perceptions about himself, there was calm—even a certain sense of relief. He'd not spoken to anyone about such things, or in such a way, for a long time, if ever. Yes, it was Hermione Granger, and every particle in his body cringed because of it, but hers was a second opinion, and he hadn't known he might need one, until now.

He still hadn't decided what exactly any of her words might mean to him, but she'd given him much to think about, and he would have to decide if she had any salient points or not.

And so he sat there, his mind caught up in trying to determine whether he could find it within himself to re-evaluate his past actions in a different light, and while visions of the past played behind his eyes, outwardly, his gaze found solace in watching the sleeping figure from across the room.

* * *

AN: Thanks for reading : )


	15. Broken Pieces

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling. _

**15. Broken Pieces**

When Hermione woke up, she was momentarily disorientated, having forgotten why she should be sleeping in her parents' spare bedroom. Then she recalled the events of the previous night. She reached for her wand and cast a dim _Lumos_, glancing warily around the room. She half expected it to be empty, but Snape was still there in the armchair, and apparently sleeping.

She extinguished her wand and laid her head back on the pillow. She hadn't meant to fall asleep, but after that rather awkward discussion with him, she'd needed a moment or two in which to think, and clearly she'd been more disposed to sleeping than thinking. What thinking she had done had mostly been about him. Often, she found herself inwardly marvelling over the things she dared to say to him. She'd never dreamed of speaking to him in such forthright terms, but there was just something about him that managed to rile her up at times. And he'd frightened her with talk of… suicide…

No one had ever spoken to her like that before—she'd never known anyone in the state of mind he was. How could she know if she was saying the right things? She could only say what she felt. She had to wonder if she was the only person he had said such things to in recent times, and it was a responsibility that she was not sure she was equal to. She would not blab all that he had said to another, but in the long run, _was_ that for the best?

He was clearly very troubled by guilt, and she hoped that one day he could learn to live with it, because she knew he would likely never forget it.

It was nearing six o'clock in the morning and Hermione decided she should sneak out and perform her ablutions, before her parents rose to get ready for work. Sneaking behind her parents' back was not an ideal situation. They knew she was working hard to help Ron, but she was unsure how they would react to her brush with a firearm-wielding detective. Actually, she knew exactly how they would react, and that was why she moved silently about the upstairs landing in the dark.

As she brushed her teeth in the bathroom, her thoughts returned to the events of yesterday, wondering what on earth they would do about Oakshott. How long had Selwyn had Oakshott under his command? Had he been part of the faking of Selwyn's death? And would Selwyn really expect them to back off after yesterday's performance? She was fairly sure he would not expect them to be easily cowed. Nevertheless, it was still a warning to be heeded, and they would have to modify their next movements in accordance with it.

Once dressed, Hermione returned quietly to the bedroom, but Snape was awake when she entered. She found it hard to look at him. Instead, she smiled awkwardly and then set about tidying the evidence of their presence away.

'How is your arm?' she asked, when she had plucked up enough courage.

'Fine,' he grunted. 'But it will be even better when I get home.'

'Yes… of course.' When she did chance a look at him, he looked grim and preoccupied. 'You know, I would understand if you would rather not be a part of this anymore. I mean, you could have been badly hurt yesterday…'

_But he doesn't care about living. _The thought echoed around her head almost sickeningly loud. Was this why he had agreed to help her, after all, because he actually had a death wish? She hoped she was merely exaggerating things in her mind, but still, it would remain stubbornly in her thoughts.

He didn't say anything, just gave her a look that indicated he had no truck with any of her words. She'd rather thought he wouldn't, and she wondered once again of the extent to which he might have a personal wish for vengeance against Selwyn.

'Very well,' she said. 'What would you like to do next?'

'Home,' he said. 'You may come if you wish, as I suppose we must discuss what next.'

Finding no reason to argue with that plan, Hermione Apparated them from her house to the outside of his. The street was dark and empty as they stood on the doorstep. He opened the door and lit a few candles in the living room. Not for the first time, she noticed the electricity switch on the wall and wondered why he did not use it.

'I will return momentarily; touch anything and I'll know about it.'

Her mouth fell open indignantly, but he'd disappeared up the stairs before she could say anything. Determined not to give him any reason for accusing her of anything, she kept her hands and eyes mostly to herself. She did conjure her Patronus to take a message to Grimmauld Place, though. Merlin only knew what Harry and Ginny must be thinking at her disappearing act, but she did not tell them yet of her suppositions. The last thing she wanted was to give false hope, when potentially there might not be any.

She was idly staring at her hands, awaiting his return, when a sharp knock on the front door startled her. She snapped her head towards the sound, holding her wand tightly while getting to her feet and edging towards the door Snape had disappeared through. The front door knocked again.

Snape himself soon came flying down the stairs, his wand pointed at the door.

'Who on earth would it be at this time?' she whispered.

'Snape,' a voiced hissed through the door, 'I know you're back. It's Thomas, Inspector Oakshott's sergeant, I need to speak with you urgently.'

Hermione looked at Snape in surprise. Was it to be about Oakshott?

'Listen,' Snape said in low voice, turning to her. 'As soon as I open the door I will stun him. You shall levitate his body inside.'

Hermione nodded and followed behind him to the door. Thomas barely had time to register the opening of the door before his eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed onto the doorstep. Hermione lifted the body into the air with her wand and quickly manoeuvred him inside, while Snape shut the door swiftly.

She placed Thomas onto the mat in front of the fireplace and knelt down to check him for spells, most especially, signs of Imperio. But there were none. Snape also got to his knees, but instead, he began rifling through Thomas's pockets. He took out a wallet and handed it her. The warrant card inside indicated that he was Sergeant George Thomas of the London Metropolitan Police, but Hermione had to wonder again at the legitimacy of such a claim, especially when Snape removed a gun from Thomas's person.

She watched him look it over and comment, 'That'll do nicely,' under his breath, before shrinking down the weapon and Banishing it to some unknown location.

'Should you—' she began to say, but he swiftly spoke over her.

'Let's wake our friend up.' He seemed oddly animated at the intrusion they had received.

She joined him by getting to her feet, and he aimed an _Ennervate_ at the Muggle on his carpet. Thomas jerked blearily awake and looked around frantically. 'What the hell?' he exclaimed loudly, struggling to his feet.

'Sit down, Sergeant; I'm afraid our treatment of you may have resulted in a bump to the head.' Snape smiled.

Hermione also retreated to a chair, feeling that it was unlikely she would be needed in the ensuing interrogation Snape so obviously planned to give. Thomas looked deeply unsettled, as if already regretting his decision to come here, but he did sit down.

Snape stood, staring down his nose at him. 'You said you knew I was back—how?' he demanded quietly.

'Oh,' said Thomas, 'no reason, just the light was on, or the candles, rather…'

Snape shook his head. 'No, that will not do. Have you been watching my comings and goings?'

Thomas shot to his feet. 'Now, look, Snape—'

'I will ask you again, Thomas. _Have you been watching my comings and goings?_'

Hermione, meanwhile, was having unpleasant flashbacks to Potions lessons at Hogwarts. How often had she sat in his classroom, hardly daring to even breathe as he prowled about looking for someone to hiss at? Had he been wearing his robes of old, the picture before her would have been nearly complete.

Thomas's small, 'Yes,' surprised her, however, and she sat up, hardly knowing how Snape would react.

'I see, I see.' Snape rubbed a hand thoughtfully over his chin and paced up and down for a moment. 'I, ah, don't know if you've noticed,' he continued, with a clipped laugh, 'but I am not someone who can take to such a thing kindly.' His wand flashed into his hand and he jabbed it into Thomas's chest. 'You see?' he snarled.

'Now, see here, Snape…' Thomas hurriedly reached inside his coat, but paused when he evidently did not find what he was looking for.

'Oh, are you looking for your gun? Sorry… Had to get rid of it.'

Hermione noticed that, to his credit, the detective drew himself up, even at the realisation that he was at the disadvantage. She did not think Snape would hurt him, but she was unsure as to whether she should say something and intervene.

'I am not always a reasonable man, Thomas, which, if you've done your homework correctly, you will probably already know. So, when I say, sit down and tell me exactly how you've been watching me, _I mean it._'

Thomas nodded minutely and Snape removed his wand. Hermione rather thought their visitor almost collapsed into his chair, but he did not prevaricate.

'Across the road, number twenty-five,' said he.

Hermione looked at Snape in surprise. Was that the curtain-twitcher she had spotted before?

'We've been watching as many of the Death Eaters, or their families in most cases, as we can. We were watching you because we were not entirely convinced of your motives. As one of the few Death Eaters to escape punishment, we wanted to be certain you would not lead us to those we were hunting.'

Snape looked fairly furious, and Hermione feared for a moment that he would not be able to master himself, but he clenched his fist and visibly breathed deeply.

'We've not infiltrated your house—not bugged it, and so on…'

Hermione noticed a flash of confusion spark across Snape's face momentarily, but he clearly caught the gist of Thomas's meaning through the mention of the concept of infiltration.

'Are you really from the police, or something more?' Snape asked suddenly.

'The police, of course—'

Hermione decided to speak up. 'Do you think we really believe that the Muggle police are sent to deal with issues of _magic_? It would have to be nothing less than top-secret. You carry guns; you seemingly have undertaken a huge surveillance operation; you know too much about matters of the Wizarding world…'

Thomas's expression was neutral. 'If you choose to doubt me, then that is your prerogative. If I were from the secret service, I am hardly likely to admit it, am I?'

'_Admit_ it? No…'

There was a quality to Snape's voice that made Hermione look at him. Was he considering forcing the information from him? She was not endeared to that course of action, but when he caught her glance, he shook his head negatively. She was relieved; while they would like to understand more of the participation of the Muggles, forcing one to reveal secrets and then Obliviating them could get them into huge trouble, and that was without even considering the ethics of it.

'Well, what have you come to say?'

'It's about Inspector Oakshott—he's gone missing.'

'Oh, we know,' said Snape conversationally. 'He took a chunk out of me only yesterday, in fact.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'He fired a gun at me,' stated Snape slowly and crisply.

'I don't understand… Why would he do such a thing? Where is he?'

Hermione had to wonder at this point whether Thomas was aware that Selwyn was alive. If he wasn't, it might be in their interest not to apprise him of such matters. Snape appeared to feel the same, for he did not answer Thomas's questions directly.

'Tell us first how he came to be missing.'

Thomas looked between the two of them speculatively. 'Look, I'll tell you something that isn't widely known. Oakshott knows a good deal about your… world. He's… Do you call them Squibs?'

Hermione was not unduly shocked. They'd considered the possibility before, but had never had concrete reason to suppose Oakshott was a Squib.

Thomas continued. 'He was very set on making sure any witch or wizard who had brought a crime against us… _Muggles_… was caught. Anyway, after Selwyn was killed, he said he wanted to go to Selwyn's home and tie up a few loose ends. I went to contact the Aurors about what had happened with Selwyn, but when I returned to pick up Oakshott from the house, he wasn't there, and he hasn't been heard from or seen since. But _you_ say you've seen him—where?'

'Things have become rather dangerous,' began Hermione diplomatically. 'There is magic involved here, and with respect, I think you should leave it in our hands.'

'Miss Granger is right—there is nothing you can do at this time.'

Thomas surveyed them critically. 'Magic? What has been done to him?'

'Nothing that cannot be undone.'

The detective looked unconvinced, but eventually relented. 'Very well, I understand. In any case, it is more than what your Aurors were willing to give. They said it was nothing to do with them. I will give you a number to contact me on—'

'Can't we just pop across the road?' asked Hermione sardonically.

'Ah, no… I will put a halt to any more surveillance of your house, Snape.'

'I do not fully trust that you will, but there you go. Still, I have my own ways and means.'

Thomas paused uncomfortably. 'Indeed,' he murmured quietly, giving them his card and standing to leave. After he'd gone, they both sat in silence for some time. Hermione was thinking how important it was that they track down Selwyn and his now sidekick Oakshott as soon as possible. Would they have remained at Thistledown cottage? Maybe, but more likely not.

Their best chance had been yesterday, but she did not regret that they had run from it. They had not expected to be… ambushed, in any way, and they truly had placed themselves at a disadvantage.

'What did you make of that?' she asked eventually when the silence had elongated beyond what was comfortable.

'Tell me, Miss Granger, how do you feel about Muggle interference in the workings of the Wizarding world? You grew up in the Muggle world, but you've now spent as much time in the Wizarding world—do you fear that the lines between the two are increasingly more blurry as time goes on?'

She was rather surprised by his question, and she had to think for a moment. 'If you'd asked me whether I fear _co_-_operation_, then I would say no. But you said _interference… _I… Isn't fear rather too strong a word, though?'

'Is it?' He raised an eyebrow. 'In the first place, the concept that there be two separate worlds is flawed. Yes, we have separate cultures and values and politics, but we all live in the same place—the same country. I live in a predominantly Muggle area—does that mean I live in the Muggle world?'

'Not necessarily.'

He nodded. 'Quite; but the point is, these so-called worlds are interchangeable. I may not pay tax to the Muggle state, but I live amongst Muggles. I might go to the Muggle shop on the corner. I could have walked into a Muggle hospital last night and had my arm treated with barely no questions asked. I could go on…'

'I'm not sure I see the point you're driving at, though.'

'Miss Granger, do you not think that someone, someday, will have the idea that there should only be _one_ world? How easy would it be for the Wizarding world to be subsumed by the Muggle state? In some ways it may even make sense; in others, maybe not…'

Hermione felt her eyes widen. 'That is surely a bit extreme?'

He shrugged. 'It seems to me the Ministry has already entrusted certain matters to the Muggles. Dependency is a dangerous thing. Would you fear that?'

'Well… yes. I would like to think it would work in theory, but, in practice, I _highly_ doubt it.'

'Do not misunderstand me, I am not convinced the scenario I have suggested would ever come to pass, but just the potential is dangerous in itself—'

'Of course it is—in so many ways.'

'You see, we have Oakshott, who we now know to be a Squib, and who is working, let us assume, high up in the Muggle government. As much as I dislike the man, the situation he is in now is very serious.'

'You're right—if Selwyn kills him, it will certainly ruffle the feathers of the Muggles… But surely this is a bigger responsibility than we can bear?'

'Says the girl who took on the responsibility to help defeat the worst megalomaniac there's ever been?' he asked dryly.

Hermione unexpectedly flushed. She was not someone prone to modesty, but she felt oddly embarrassed now.

He took pity on her. 'You're right, though—it is not our responsibility to manage relations between Muggle and Magical peoples. But _we_ know what is going on, Miss Granger, and that is our responsibility. Do we inform the Ministry of all that we know? Or do we carry on and come what may?'

'I…' She clasped her hands together and sighed. 'I don't know.'

He was right to bring up the point. They could have continued outside of the Ministry when it was only Selwyn, but now there was another involved. They knew what was happening, and surely they owed it to Oakshott to ensure that all effort was made to save him from Selwyn's clutches. It would mean revealing to the Ministry that they knew Selwyn had faked his death, and Hermione knew deep down that they would not believe them.

'Look, it's simple—we'll have to tell someone. Even if it means the Aurors wading in with their size nines and buggering up any chance we have of getting at Selwyn, it's the right thing to do.' She looked at her watch. 'Kinglsey should be at the Ministry now, and he's the only one likely to give me the time of day. I will go straight away—the sooner the better.'

'Very well,' he said with the air of distraction she realised she was becoming used to associating with him.

She would not ask him to come with her; she knew he would rather avoid the Ministry at all costs, but they needed to do something. In fact, she was rather ashamed that she hadn't thought to raise the alarm last night. But she would do it now, and that would have to be enough.

Only an hour later and Hermione was ready to tear her hair out. Kingsley had listened sympathetically at first, but she had seen his expression darken when she had begun talking of Muggle detectives and faked deaths. It was hard not to blame him, considering she was sitting there with hardly a shred of evidence to back-up her story. But to his credit, when she had explained it for the umpteenth time, he finally began to look like he would at least consider her version of events. And after all, they had very real evidence that Snape had been shot at by Oakshott, and that was surely worth investigating in itself.

Kinglsey left her to speak to the Head of the Aurors, but when he returned to his office, his face told the story. They refused to believe Selwyn was not dead. The story about Arthur Selwyn, they said, was 'flights of fancy.'

'For what it's worth, Hermione, I believe what you are telling me is possible…'

But they had no proof.

'Send some Aurors to Thistledown cottage, then, won't you? Just to check,' she urged. 'Oakshott _was_ there, and he was definitely under the influence of Imperius.'

He told her he was to be dispatched to go himself, but with the instruction to only search for sign of Oakshott. Hermione appreciated that much at least. It was a difficult situation to judge, she knew. For her own part, she was rather relieved there would not be a large Ministry presence to frighten Selwyn into retreating out of sight, and yet, there was Oakshott to consider. How would the Muggles react to finding out that the Aurors had more or less willingly left one of their agents to the mercy of one of the most dangerous men in the country?

It could turn out to be a much bigger mess than it already was.

She returned to Spinner's End and relayed her experience to Snape. 'I don't know whether I could have done more. I am actually quite worried about Oakshott now. I know he has not been particularly nice to us, but he does not deserve to be in the clutches of a ruthless man like Selwyn.'

Snape did not indicate any surprise that she had not got on entirely well at the Ministry, but he muttered something about 'having done all they could.' She had not been gone for very long, but his mood seemed to have deteriorated further in the intervening time.

In fact, in hindsight, what followed turned out to be one of the most surprising exchanges she'd had with him so far, and admittedly, that was rather saying something.

He had received a package during her absence, and he jerked his head towards where it sat on a table. Hermione approached it tentatively, wondering if it was to be something unpleasant, but reaching inside the envelope, she found only two small phials. Picking up the accompanying note, she discovered it was from Professor McGonagall.

They were phials of Invisibility potion. The Headmistress wrote that she had commissioned Professor Slughorn to complete the brew they had started themselves, feeling that if they'd needed it before, they might need it again. Hermione clutched the phials and looked at Snape carefully. What was his problem? She found herself smiling widely, indescribably grateful to the Headmistress and her Potions master. 'This is wonderful! What foresight she has! When I have chance, I will visit Hogwarts. I feel rather guilty for the way we left the castle last time, without even telling anyone we were going.'

His eyebrows were drawn into a frown, and he looked irritable. Feeling slightly impatient, she steered the conversation back to the topic at hand.

'We can get into the Selwyn home or Thistledown undetected now… It's _just_ what we need.' She rubbed her hands together almost eagerly.

'It will be useful, indeed,' he said, markedly unenthused.

'I want to use it to get into Selwyn's house in Cumbria. I think having a look around his mother's bedroom might prove useful. We need any sign that points to Arthur Selwyn surviving—'

'Miss Granger,' he interrupted swiftly, 'you will not be using it—I will.'

She blinked. 'I'm sorry? There's enough for more than one dose.'

'It is too dangerous. We do not know who else Selwyn might have recruited to aim pot-shots at unwanted visitors, and may I remind you that invisibility does not equate invincibility? It is decided.'

'Hang on, it is certainly not decided. I don't care how dangerous it is, I _want_ to do this.'

'We cannot both take the potion at the same time, the logistics of which are too fraught with pitfalls to contemplate.'

'Fine—you can wait outside.' If she hadn't been deadly serious, the look on his face might have cause her to laugh out loud. Clearly, Severus Snape was not accustomed to _waiting outside_.

'_You_ can wait outside.'

'I have been in danger before, you know. I would like to know just what it is that makes you think you are more equipped to deal with difficult situations? Is it because you are a man? Do you think I am less capable—that I can't possibly cope—because I am female? Or maybe it's because I am younger? Do you think I am a clueless child? I'll have you know—'

'All right, all right!' He looked at her with annoyed eyes. 'Merlin, call off your dogs! I was merely making a suggestion, not searching for a pointless debate on the struggles of feminism!'

Hermione inwardly softened. Truth be told, she was rather more concerned with his own desire to run into danger, and after what he'd said last night about death, she was quite convinced it _was_ a desire. She'd much prefer to believe he was a part-time chauvinist.

'Look, I'll do Cumbria, and then you can do Thistledown. That's fair.'

The expression on his face suggested he begged to differ, but Hermione knew she would not be swayed. 'You said yourself it is impractical for us both to be invisible at the same time. I know a charm we can use to communicate if either of us falls into trouble.'

She was thinking of the Protean charm she had used during the time of Dumbledore's Army. She was about to elaborate, when she saw that his expression was one of evident distaste. He looked purposefully away from her, as if even just the sight of her was somehow offensive to him.

'_What_?' she enquired involuntarily, much surprised. What could she have possible done wrong now?

'Nothing,' he muttered, but his voice was cross.

She stared at him with wide eyes, piqued by his manner. 'No, clearly you have a problem.'

'Do not presume to know what I am thinking; I have no problem.'

Once upon a time, the hostile look he was giving her would have caused to her retreat, but she knew now that she did not have to back down. Even if it did seem foolish to risk his wrath, which appeared to be simmering away ominously under the surface. 'I do not need to presume anything,' she ventured. 'It is written all over your face.'

She felt the tension close around her as he only stared, and disliking that he was making her feel both uncomfortable and slightly defensive, she spoke hurriedly. 'I fail to see what there is for you to take offence at. You know I am trying to help Ron and that I am prepared to do anything within my power to achieve it. Even Oakshott we must help now. I _want_ to get into Selwyn's house—I _want_ to find him. No amount of danger is going to dissuade me from doing what I feel is best. I have to continue with this myself. You've had no problem with this before, I—'

He flew to his feet with a low groan of frustration. '_You_!' he said swiftly. 'It is you who is my _problem_!'

Hermione watched, suddenly aghast, as he paced before her, alternately gesturing and throwing her hard glares as he spoke. 'I cannot stand to hear another word about Weasley, about Selwyn, about what he deserves, or about what is _right._ That is the worst of it! I cannot take another moment of your never-ending righteousness!' He roughly shoved a hand through his hair, breathing heavily. 'Your irrepressible nobility I find debilitating… and sickening, and it makes me feel—'

He cut himself off abruptly with a loud angry breath, his movements also ceasing. He faced the fireplace and Hermione stared at the back of him, hardly daring to breathe. She could barely grasp what he'd just thrown at her, but what she did gather, she deemed unfair. It was unfair of him to turn on her so quickly, and over what, exactly? Her _principles_?

He rubbed a hand viciously over his mouth and then threw himself into his chair. The hand then went to his eyes, which were closed defiantly.

Hermione forced herself to swallow against the dryness of her throat and speak. 'Is that… Is that how you really see me?'

She'd no idea that he viewed her in such a light. And, in some way, she supposed from anyone else it would be a compliment that they believed her to be a person who tried to be, for a lack of a better word, good. After all, just what was wrong with being a… good person? But he'd made it sound like the worst thing in the world.

Not a word he would say, nor any sign of acknowledgement would he give. He simply sat there, slowly rubbing his brow as if nursing a particularly bad headache.

'I think you are being unfair,' she said quietly. 'I have never set myself up to be anything other than what I am. I don't profess myself to be perfect. I have faults, just like anyone. I am by turns, impatient, forthright, and bossy, and numerous other things, I don't doubt, but I am sorry if my having a… sense of decency, and a set of morals to which I like to adhere to is abhorrent to you. I had not considered I was being unbearably pious in any way.'

It was true. She was not someone who preached about codes of behaviour, who expected everyone to follow her own example! And righteous? She'd never considered herself to be any more honourable than the next person.

It was partly anger that made her add her next words. 'Indeed, I rather thought I was only behaving as _any_ person would—as any good friend would.'

He stilled, but she did not wait around to see if he would deign to reply, knowing that it was probably best that she leave. She snatched up the vials of potion and walked quietly out of the house. She was halfway down the street before she allowed herself to pause and think. What on earth had just happened? She turned and looked back to the house with a feeling of incalculable disappointment.

Afraid that he might come after her, she hurried around the corner, out of sight. Inwardly, she laughed at herself. He would not be coming after her. She sucked in a steadying breath of air and fumbled with tying her scarf around her neck. What had disposed him to be in such an awful mood? He had seemed fine this morning.

Was it true? Was it really _her_ that set his blood to boil, and now he was not able to take it any more? And all over something so unbelievable as her _character_? Or was it something else that had conspired to upset him?

She knew she would not be able to fathom it. She accepted she'd probably annoyed him very much with her views, especially in those moments when he had spoken frankly about his own and she had disagreed. She knew he had particular ideas about himself, about his own character, and was that where the conflict lay?

Regardless, she had not known she could ignite such disgust.

In hindsight, she should have expected something of the sort. That she was inadequate when it came to deciphering the nuances of his personality was not a surprise. He had said she did not understand him and he was right. Never was a truer word spoken, she realised. She'd tried, certainly, and thought she'd got it right, but it was obvious now how wide of the mark she'd been. She'd been mistaken to ever attempt to decide what should drive a man who had led such a life—a life so very different to her own.

She'd not make the same mistake again, she knew that much.

Gathering her wits about her, Hermione Apparated. From the cover of a copse of trees, she looked up at the large seat of the Selwyn family. In the context of what had just happened, she knew her decision to come here was impulsive. She leant against a tree trunk and closed her eyes. Here was the irony that, after all that had happened, she was now back where she had started—alone on her quest.

It would be stupid of her not to inform someone of her whereabouts. She was fairly sure the house would be empty, but she'd been through enough in her lifetime to know taking chances did not always pay off. Snape knew of her plans, but she did not want him any more involved than he wanted to be, and right now, it seemed he wanted to be involved not at all.

She would send a Patronus message to Harry. He would not react well to it, she knew, but it was all she could do. She could not afford to waste time where finding Selwyn was concerned.

Hermione watched her Patronus scamper away, and then she tugged out the stopper in the phial she held. She estimated she had about an hour before the potion would fail—ample time, she was sure. Well, it would have to be.

Snape's voice echoed darkly around her mind as she drank the potion, and she wished suddenly that the last hour had not happened. She wished she could understand his sudden rage at her. She wished she could know what it all meant.

But however confused she was, she had to forget it. Closing her mind to her doubts, she set off up to the house. She'd come too far—come _too_ close to Selwyn to abandon it all now. She needed to remember that none of this was about herself, or Professor Snape, or anyone else—it was about Ron.

Everything else could be dealt with in its own time.

* * *

AN: Thanks : )


	16. Losing Touch

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**16. Losing Touch**

His small living room reverberated loudly with silence after she had left.

He hated that he had let his mouth run away with him. As soon as he had comprehended what it was he was saying to her, he had felt ridiculous. No doubt she thought him ridiculous, as well.

But he had felt so suddenly _angry_—so unaccountably incensed that he hadn't been able to check himself. The anger that seemed to be always slowly festering inside him had been inflamed today. Yes, to an extent, she was partly to blame. Her words from last night were still impressed upon him, but the more he'd dwelt on them, the more bitterness he had felt towards her. It was all well and good for her to sit there and pontificate. She didn't have to live his life.

He should have known his early morning irritation would set the tone for the rest of the day. Finding out he was being spied upon by some Muggles had only worsened matters. He was willing to bet the Ministry had been more than happy to know someone was keeping an eye on him. Clearly, he was a man who would never be fully trusted, and while he had always reconciled himself to that, to have proof that he was right was hardly encouraging.

The note from Minerva had been another reminder of his shortcomings. She had sent her regards, as she always did. There she was, thinking of his own welfare. Yet he had barely been able to bring himself to look at her, let alone speak to her at Hogwarts. And then to have Granger waft in, always looking so carefree, even though he _knew_ that she was not untroubled, but it taunted him, nevertheless.

It was that what he hated. He hated that it seemed so _easy_ for everyone else. Everyday life seemed so easy. Why did he have to struggle? Why couldn't he get past himself and move on? He was afraid the answer might be that he simply didn't want to. Where could he go from that?

In any case, his anger had not really been meant for Granger. It was all for himself—it was _always_ for himself. He could see how completely unreasonable it was for him to denigrate her, simply because he considered her a better person than he was himself. But then, he was not new to succumbing to feelings of envy. Envy was something he had lived with for many years of his life.

He could manifest his anger into self-loathing, but it was not satisfying to trap it within oneself. And there she had been, a new outlet for his ire, his frustration—his pathetic thoughts.

_He _was pathetic.

Still, as unwarranted and as unreasonable as it was, he felt better for it. The tension had left his body, and now he felt almost boneless, slumped in his chair as he was. Almost peaceful, ironically. He wanted to forget everything for a time and enjoy the listlessness that had so often come upon him before. A quiet moment before the guilt and recriminations would come.

His moment of peace was to be woefully short-lived, however. A loud banging on his front door startled him into life, but he did not get to his feet. He would ignore it, this time.

The insistent knocking continued, and a voice shouted from the other side. 'Sir, it's Harry Potter, please let me in.'

Severus wanted to laugh. Of all the people for it to be, it had to be _him_. Harry flaming Potter. How dare he come banging on his door behaving like it was his God-given right to be listened to!

He forced himself to his feet and he wrenched the door open with a fierce scowl. 'What the deuce do you want with me Potter?' he hissed. 'You and your little friends are trying my last nerve!'

'Well, it's about my 'little friends,' unfortunately,' said Potter irritably. 'Where's Hermione?'

'Not here.'

'Yes, so I've heard,' replied the bane of his life. 'I have a message from her saying she has gone to Selwyn's old house—_alone_.'

Severus felt a feeling of foreboding wash over him, even as Potter continued speaking.

'I realise I don't know half of what is going on here, but what the hell is she thinking? Selwyn's dead, for one thing. As much as I hate to say it, she cannot keep running about chasing at any little thing—she has to accept there may be nothing we can do for Ron.'

Potter looked suddenly ashen, as if the import of his own words had never signified to him before. Severus barely registered the grief on his face, however; he simply turned and headed back into his living room.

She'd taken the phials. His neck started to throb and he pressed at it with restless movements.

_What had you expected her to do? _

He looked behind to find Potter watching him with narrowed eyes.

'What's going on?'

'We… She's…' He must have sounded like a gibbering idiot, and he struggled hard to bring his mind into focus. There was no time to explain everything now. 'Look, Potter. I know where she has gone—I shall go and fetch her.'

He Summoned his coat and shoved his arms into it, ignoring the sharp flare of pain he received from his injured arm as he did so. But Potter evidently noticed his wince, for he looked at him searchingly.

'Wait,' he cautioned. 'I want to come with you—I want to know just what you and Hermione have got yourselves into.'

Severus glared at him with undisguised impatience. 'Your presence, such that it is, can only be a hindrance, Potter. You will go back to wherever it is you came from and wait there.'

'No, I can't—'

'Potter! Just go!' Severus exclaimed loudly.

The boy stared at him mutinously, but eventually gave in. 'Fine; you have an hour, all right?'

Severus nodded tersely, and then he was left standing alone. He cursed loudly to himself. Holding his wand tightly, he started to Apparate, but paused mid-turn when his eyes caught sight of the drawers beneath one of his bookcases. Without thinking twice, he tugged the top drawer open and closed his hand around the cold metal of the gun he had retrieved from Thomas.

He looked at it in his hand and hesitated. It was only a moment's hesitation, during which the thought that he knew nothing about guns—nothing about how they worked, passed through his mind.

Nevertheless, he placed it carefully in his coat pocket.

He was sure there was no need for alarm, but he should be prepared for any and every eventuality.

Severus gave it not another thought; he Apparated straight into the Cumbrian countryside. A Disillusionment spell would be all he would have to keep himself as unseen as possible.

He walked swiftly through the undergrowth until he reached the gravel driveway surrounding the house. He squinted up at the façade. If anyone were to be inside, they would surely hear him crunching about. There was little else for it, however. He stepped steadily, but precariously, up to the front door. He was about to cast the strongest unlocking charm he knew, when he put his hand on the doorknob and twisted it. It gave way beneath his hand and the door moved open.

The fact that the door was already unlocked disturbed him. Had Granger opted to enter through the front and left it open herself? Or was it the work of someone else?

Severus stood in the hall for several moments and simply listened. Not a sound could be heard from any quarter. How he would find her while she was invisible to the eye, he did not know. And the last thing he could do was to call out for her. He supposed there were certain things he could be aware of. Sound was the most obvious. There was also the often inexplicable sense of awareness one might have in the presence of unseen persons. He'd had much practice honing that when dealing with Potter's Invisibility Cloak.

He took to the stairs first, heading for Eliza Mortimer's bedroom. Along the landing, all of the doors were pulled closed, all except the door leading to Eliza's room.

Inside the bedroom, however, all seemed as it should—still and peaceful. Severus dropped his charm for a moment, so she would see him if she was there, but there was nothing. He grimaced and stepped back along the landing, trepidation causing his steps to be less cautious than they should have been.

He headed next to the study, but again, all was silence and stillness. Severus exhaled loudly and walked along the passage to the library.

As soon as he had passed over the threshold, he felt there was something wrong. At first glance, there was nothing to be remarked upon. But then there was the smell. A fire had recently been burning in the grate, and as he peered into the fireplace, he could see the remaining embers, and what he was willing to bet was Floo powder. Severus looked along the mantelpiece and snatched up a pot.

It was empty.

Did Granger go around with Floo powder in her pockets? He wasn't convinced. But he knew Selwyn had been using Floo travel in the past. Was it here he had been Flooing from Thistledown? If so, how had he avoided the wards on the house the Aurors had maintained?

Straightening, he turned around. There was a smashed vase on the floor behind the settee. He moved closer to the mess, and as he stared at the floor, he realised he could see that the thin film of dust that covered most surfaces was much disturbed. There were some signs of footprints, but they were too indistinct to work out whether they belonged to one or more persons. The curious thing was that the trail led to the floor-to-ceiling bookcase and then stopped.

He crossed to the bookcase and studied it. Was there a hidden chamber beyond? If there was, it was likely password protected. Besides, for all he knew, it could be nothing.

He turned his back to the books and looked around the library. _Had_ Granger been in here? He walked towards the broken pieces of ceramic. Surely she would have repaired the vase if she'd been responsible for its breakage?

_Unless she couldn't_, a traitorous voice in his mind whispered.

He bent to his knees and picked up a large shard of the vase. What had happened here? He examined the floor again; it was here the most evidence could be seen. Dust had clumped where it had been swept aside by something… He realised, then, that the disturbance was visible as one trajectory. From the bookcase, past the side-table where the vase had stood, and onwards to the fireplace. It looked like something had been dragged across the floor…

Severus swallowed against the uncertainty and moved to the fireplace. He knelt down and stared into the black ashes that lay unmoving and inert. A picture was beginning to form in his mind, but he resisted against what it was telling him. When he glanced around the immediate vicinity, he spotted something that he recognised. He snatched at it—a small object, the size of a postage stamp. It was one of Eliza Mortimer's paintings he knew Granger to have been carrying around. Had it fallen out of her pocket when she'd…? He did not like to complete the thought, but the significance was not lost on him.

'Oh, Granger, no,' he murmured resignedly, curling his hand around the painting. He breathed heavily for several moments, as numerous scenarios flashed through his head, and with each one his confusion and anger bled into one feeling of impotent fury. He jumped to his feet and rushed to the doorway.

'Miss Granger!' he shouted as loud as he could, no longer caring for stealth. The sound only echoed emptily throughout the house. He could tear this house apart, he knew, but he would find nothing. It was that fireplace. He knew it in his bones that she had been taken through there. But how the hell was he supposed to determine where to?

His heart was pumping furiously as he raced through the passage. Wrenching open the front door, he broke out into a run to reach the perimeter of the wards. What on earth had she been doing to allow herself to be caught? The _silly_ girl…

There was one other place to try, but he knew deep down that it would be fruitless. He Apparated straight to the Isle of Arran, to Blackwaterfoot, and when the world had righted itself before his eyes, he wondered if he might have made a mistake during Apparition. Below him, in the dip of the moor, stood not Thistledown cottage, but a smoking, charred ruin. Frozen to the spot, he could only look with horror on the exposed rafters and blackened walls of the cottage.

Almost unconsciously, he found himself heading swiftly along the road until he reached the gateway to the house. Two people whom Severus did not recognise, but who he took to be village residents, were standing gazing up at the cottage and were issuing murmurs of regret.

'Terrible sight, isn't it?' they said to him.

'What happened?' he managed to ask.

'No one knows, really. The house went up in flames early this morning. The fire-fighters reckoned they'd never seen such a blaze. Poor Mr Abbott never stood a chance.'

Severus fought not to start. 'Mr Abbott was in the house at the time?'

Two sombre nods were what he received in reply, and this time, when he looked at the ruin before him, there was graver significance to be assimilated. He stepped away numbly and walked along the lane. The further away from the sickeningly acrid smell of burning, the better.

Eventually he came to a dazed stop in the middle of the lane. What the hell was he going to do now? There was no doubt in his mind that whatever had caused the blaze in the cottage, Selwyn had been behind it. No doubt he'd wanted to destroy any evidence that had remained there. And as for the body, he had a good idea whom it really belonged to. It was certainly not Abbott.

He rubbed a weary hand over his face and looked across the misty, grey waters that lay to the south. They were not calm waters today, and he felt sick as he surveyed the landscape. He ventured another glance back towards the charred shell of Thistledown cottage. Where on earth was Granger?

What a mess; a complete and utter mess. He couldn't stand to remain there one moment longer.

Within a few seconds, he was back in his living room. He collapsed into his chair, craving one thing—a stiff drink. He Summoned an old bottle of brandy he knew he had lying about. It was already nearly empty, and he drained the remains in one go.

He would have to go to the Ministry—to the Aurors. Even as he conceived the thought, he scorned the usefulness of it. What would the Aurors do? They would not know where Granger was any more than he did. But what other option was there?

He should have realised she would proceed alone, but he'd been too mired in his own misery to foresee the consequences. If ever he had regretted getting embroiled in all of this, it was now. He knew he should never have taken on the responsibility.

He let the empty brandy bottle slip slowly through his fingers to the floor.

_Pull yourself together, Snape. _

There would be time enough for him to condemn his own actions, but this whole nightmare needed to be sorted out as soon as possible.

He was reaching for Thomas's contact card, when he spotted a square of parchment on the carpet. It had not been there earlier. How had it got there? Had Potter dropped it?

Severus bent down and picked it up, unfolding it slowly. His heart missed a beat. It was certainly not from Potter. Upon it, written in a black scrawl was a location. Underneath, was a crude drawing of the Dark Mark. He stared hard at the note, knowing instinctively what it meant. Knowing what it meant, however, only intensified the feeling of foreboding he felt.

It seemed Selwyn was also looking to end it once and for all.

Severus felt an anticipatory thrill down the back of his spine that he made no move to suppress. There was a whole wealth of information to be inferred from that clipped missive. That it was from Selwyn was almost incontrovertible. That he had Miss Granger at the location named on the parchment was, in Severus's view, probable, but not certain. That the Dark Mark was present only reinforced the sense of danger which he knew she was in. He folded up the parchment with careful precision and tucked it away, feeling suddenly very composed.

Severus nodded to himself. Very well, the Ministry would not be needed after all. The course of action had been settled for him. He knew what needed to be done.

He Disapparated without further ado and appeared at the bottom of a desolate Yorkshire dale. The valley was grey and foggy and rain fell lightly around him. It was a place he'd had cause to visit a few times before.

Scattered all around the country were Death Eater boltholes. Heavily-warded, Unplottable, and, of course, Secret-kept, they were places of sanctuary a Death Eater would have retreated to if necessity required it—avoiding the Aurors, mainly. Or occasionally they had been used for… meetings. And this one, this apparently deserted old farm building, was one which, clearly, had not been overturned by the Aurors in the wake of the war.

Holding his wand before him, Severus approached the stone building. He knew very well what he could be walking in to. But he thought he knew Selwyn; he would not stoop to taking him unawares. The door was ajar, and as he neared it, a voice he recognised immediately issued from within.

'Do come in, Severus. I've been expecting you.'

Selwyn's voice was a twisted parody of the welcoming host and Severus clenched his jaw with disgust. The door opened into a large, sparsely furnished room. Nothing adorned the exposed stone walls, nor the flagstone floor; a fire was the only source of light. Selwyn sat in an armchair, smiling, and even in the dim half light, it was possible to see that his face told the tale of his life on the run. To Severus's eye, his hair seemed whiter, and his face thinner, but even sitting there as he was, the threat of the man was not diminished.

Severus stepped inside, pointing his wand in the direction of the other man's chest. 'Give me a reason why I shouldn't finish you right here, right now.'

Selwyn chuckled carelessly. 'I can give you several, dear boy. Now, why don't you sit while I list them for you?' He motioned towards the chair opposite his.

Severus didn't move.

'You fear a trap; understandable in the circumstances, but look—' he raised his hands '—I'm unarmed.'

Still Severus did not budge.

'Very well, stand if you must.' Selwyn was speaking airily. 'Firstly, Severus… you do not know precisely what it is I have done with Miss Granger.' He smiled coldly. 'You do not know with whom she currently resides. Perhaps I have left certain _instructions_ pertaining to her upon my capture. Would you risk that?'

Severus moved closer. 'Well,' he hissed, 'you certainly haven't left her with Oakshott!'

Selwyn's eyes flashed. 'You disapprove, Severus? It's people like that we were saving the Wizarding World from!' He gave a bitter laugh. 'Well, I say "we", but of course, that was before you became a traitor. _Really,_ Severus? Couldn't you have been more original than becoming obsessed with some pointless Mudblood?'

Severus blinked away the red haze creeping in at edge of his mind. But it was hard. Merely looking upon the man in front of him incensed and disgusted him.

'I realise now that your obsession must be pathological, as I see you've picked up a new Mudblood. Perhaps you should consider seeing a Healer?'

Severus barely saw the production of the wand. It was certainly fast enough for Selwyn to deflect the curse he rashly sent out of his own.

Selwyn sprang to his feet. 'I am disappointed in you, Severus! Cursing a man whose wand has not been drawn? Whatever happened to your love of the fine art of duelling?'

'What do you want, Selwyn? I'm in no mood for talk, as you might be able to tell.'

'Do you like my wand, by the way? It's Granger's. Ironic, really, that it should work better for me than my uncle's. She didn't want to give it up, of course; she kept trying to talk me round, but I soon shut her up nicely. I don't know how you put up with her.'

Severus unleashed another spell; Selwyn blocked it. 'I'm sick of talking, Selwyn; _where_ is she?'

Selwyn now had his—Granger's—wand outstretched, and he was slowly edging his way around the room. Severus knew he was being subtly directed away from the only exit in the room.

'Don't you want to hear my proposition, Severus? It's a good deal from me, I can tell you.'

'Do you think I'd trust you? _You_, the sick bastard who signed his own brother's death warrant.'

Selwyn narrowed his eyes. 'You're very clever, Severus, to have worked it all out, but not clever enough to let it be, unfortunately. He wasn't my brother, not really. He was just another man who had the same parents as me.'

Severus shook his head in disgust. 'I pity you.'

For the first time, there was a look on the older man's face that was not the result of careful control or consideration. It was unbridled and true, and Severus did not flinch away at the fury expressed.

'I'll admit, _Severus_, I've been relishing this moment. I could have done away with Granger on the quiet, but I wanted to see you. I wanted to make _you_ pay. I won't be pitied by a hypocrite, like you.'

'Hypocrite, am I?'

'The worst kind,' Selwyn hissed, nodding. 'You were one of us, Snape. No one forced you to join. That mark on your arm will always proclaim as such, no matter what you might like to tell yourself.' His eyes glittered. 'It all falls into place now, you know. You always did think yourself a cut above, didn't you? Even above the Dark Lord. You never did like getting your hands dirty. No, your strengths, we were always told, lay elsewhere. But tell me Snape, as you should know the answer to this: what is worse—committing the crime, or standing by and _allowing_ it to happen… time after time?'

The last words unnerved him so much, that Severus did not realise how close Selwyn had advanced on him until only a few feet separated them. He knew he should ignore Selwyn's attempt at wrong-footing him, and he fought with all his might to keep his mind focused—to keep the recollections at bay. At the same time, anger rose unbidden inside of him, and it was that he concentrated on. It was this man, he told himself, who deserved to be punished. It was men like this who had caused so much unrest—so much sorrow.

It was men like _them_.

'You've got it wrong, my _friend_.' Severus felt himself smiling; he recalled words he had heard uttered to himself only hours ago. 'I have never set myself to be anything other than what I am. I know that I am a Death Eater. I know that I am not a good man, just as surely as I know that you are the lowest of the low. That is what makes this so fitting and… _enjoyable_.'

With that, Severus slashed down his wand. Selwyn neatly dodged the flashing white light, but Severus wasted no time in lifting his foot and shoving the table that stood between them. Selwyn stumbled and flung out a spell, which Severus ducked to avoid. There was a look on Selwyn's face that seemed to suggest that he was unhappy with the way things had panned out, and Severus wondered briefly if he really had hoped to strike a bargain.

Severus began firing out curses at a quicker pace. He would strike no bargain.

The skirmish escalated fairly quickly. Though Severus was sending hex after hex, he could see he did not quite have Selwyn on the back foot, for curses were finding their way towards himself. Severus knew that the size of the room would prove to be problematic if they continued increasing the pace of the duel, and he wracked his brains for a way to get the upper hand. He hoped he could rely on Granger's wand failing Selwyn, but for the moment, it seemed perfectly receptive.

At the risk of undermining his own concentration in the duel, he raised his voice over the sound of clashing spells. 'Why did you kill Oakshott?'

Selwyn laughed and fired a particularly nasty hex his way. Severus only just managed to block it.

'You'll not distract me, Snape. But isn't it obvious? He knew too much; he wasn't useful to me anymore.'

Severus deflected the next curse with more intent, and this time, Selwyn had to jump to avoid the rebound of his own spell. 'Why not simply _Obliviate_ him? Why leave him to burn to death?'

'Where's the fun in _Obliviate_, I ask you?'

A jet of fire streamed fiercely from Severus's wand, and Selwyn yelped in surprise as it caught his arm.

'Bastard!' he shouted, grasping a poker from the fireplace and lobbing it towards his opponent, using the distraction to douse the flames on his arm.

Severus easily arrested the progress of the poker. 'Oh, I'm sorry. I thought it would be _fun_.'

Selwyn furiously launched a barrage of spells at him, and this time, part of the wall behind Severus began to crumble under the onslaught. He avoided the shower of stone, but only narrowly missed losing his footing in the process.

'Where is she?' Severus demanded, breathing heavily, punctuating his words with several stunners.

'I'll never tell, Snape; not until I've you've bent to my will. Your precious Mudblood will rot until then!'

Severus bristled almost painfully, as he always did at any utterance of that word. 'You call me unoriginal? You're pathetic.' He changed tack, aiming his wand at the large armchair Selwyn had vacated. The man himself scrambled away as Severus sent the armchair speeding in his direction.

Selwyn did not move quick enough, however, and was knocked off-balance. His grip remained tight on his commandeered wand, though, and he shot out a hex from where he had fallen against the wall.

'This is a new side I'm seeing to you, Severus; I don't like it,' Selwyn taunted breathily. 'Time was you'd denigrate the Mudbloods along with the best of us. Do you remember?'

_The best of us._

The words echoed around Severus's mind like a death knell, and he was seized in a moment of complete hatred—hatred of himself, and of the man before him, and all they had both stood for. He was paralysed by it. He would wonder later, if he'd rather unconsciously chosen to sabotage himself, because the moment of distraction was enough for Selwyn. Severus felt himself being lifted off his feet and then he was sailing backwards through the air. Even as he landed with a hard thud on the floor, his head not quite escaping absorbing some of the sharp impact, a curious feeling of tranquillity had overtaken him.

His wand lay several feet away, but he didn't care.

Selwyn, he could hear, was rushing to his feet and he came to loom over him, with his wand pointed downwards. Severus comprehended it all in a rather detached fashion; he felt empty suddenly, unable to care.

'Now then…' Selwyn smirked with pleasure. 'Shall I _Obliviate_ you? Or shall I rid the earth of you instead?'

Severus blinked against the pain in the back of his skull. What would it matter either way? To lie here quietly, forever, might be nice.

'You see, I don't think I can let you walk free, Severus. If it wasn't for you and Potter, I wouldn't be in the mess I'm in now. But how's this—you trade your life for Granger's? I'll _Obliviate_ her and let her walk away. You'd do that for your Mudblood, wouldn't you? You'd like to martyr yourself, eh?'

Severus longed to give in to the unconsciousness probing at the edge of his mind. The daze was almost liberating, both mentally and physically. She was not his, he wanted to say, but he _could_ do it. He might even welcome it. His vision blurred, and his throat was so dry he could not speak. And to nod his acquiescence would have meant moving, and that would puncture the pleasant feeling of hazy calm he was under.

Instead, his head began to throb steadily harder and he closed his eyes against it. His throat began to hurt and he swallowed involuntarily. He felt the tip of a wand press into his chest and he opened his eyes slowly. Selwyn's face came into clearer focus above him. Severus stared into the cold eyes set in the lined face, and for the first time, he was _really_ aware of the injustices this man had wrought. And this time, he did not feel entirely indifferent. He remembered Granger's shock at the manner of Abbott's death, and something was telling him that he _should _be shocked_. _What about Oakshott_?_ What about Granger? Granger wanted Weasley. She wanted Weasley's return to health, and that would never happen while he allowed Selwyn to have his way.

He should be outraged. He should care. He should not let Selwyn get away with it, not while it was within his power. Wasn't that what he hated above all? That _he_ had got away with it? He couldn't let Selwyn too.

He felt his fists clench at his sides. Slowly, he began to realise what he had to do.

'The Dark Lord may have failed in eradicating you, Severus, but I won't.'

'You've got it wrong,' he heard himself mumble. 'She's not mine…'

Selwyn leaned closer. 'Poor Severus, thrown over, again? Never mind…'

He had it wrong, still.

Dimly, Severus watched Selwyn's mouth begin to form the words that would end his life, but all of his focus went into fighting off the dizziness that assailed him when, with a loud growl of energy, he propelled himself upwards and swung his fist with all his might into Selwyn's face.

The sickly crunching noise of the immediate impact, and Selwyn's pained exclamation of shock as the momentum tumbled him to the floor, to Severus, was beautiful.

No, Granger wasn't his—he didn't have to bargain away his life for her. It wasn't about either of them. It was about making sure Selwyn paid for his actions. Justice, Granger called it, but right now, Severus didn't much care about analysing the reasoning.

All he knew was that this, finally, was something he could end on his own terms.

And as he watched Selwyn groan and press at his bloody nose, he thought he might even relish it.

* * *

AN: Thanks for reading and for commenting.


	17. The Violence in Your Heart

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**17. The Violence in Your Heart**

Held captive, there was a great deal of time for Hermione to dwell upon her situation.

She realised it wasn't only fear that she currently felt. There was a good deal of embarrassment as well. It was only natural that her pride should spark at the fact that Selwyn had captured her while she'd been invisible.

She tried to shift herself into a more comfortable sitting position from where she was slumped against a wall. The Stunner he had used to seize her wand had begun to wear off, but her movements were inhibited by the bonds around her ankles and wrists. And they would remain so for the foreseeable future, she expected. The room was, as far as she could tell, more or less a cupboard it was so small. She could not see a hand in front of her; it was pitch black inside.

But she could hear Selwyn restlessly pacing about on the other side of the door. What he had in mind to do with her, she had not a clue. She rather thought the fact she was still breathing proved he did have something up his sleeve, however. Perhaps he would use her as a bargaining chip—her release for his freedom. On the other hand, that would mean revealing to the Ministry that he had faked his own death, and they would not take kindly to that. Maybe he had something more cunning in mind.

She didn't know where they were. She had been Stunned when he'd transported her and had woken up in this dark little box of a room. How anyone else would track her down then, she did not know. Harry would have soon realised something wasn't right when she did not return, if he hadn't acted on receipt of her note straight away. But then, what could _he_ do? He might go to Selwyn's house in Cumbria, but he would not be able to determine what had happened. No one would.

She wished now, of course, that she had not gone alone. She wished she had had the patience to withstand Snape's scorn—to have remained unfazed by it. And yet, even then, things might have turned out the same regardless of whether she had been alone or not.

Still, she'd rather be anywhere than here. She'd rather be sitting in Snape's living room while he poured derision all over her, than sitting, bound and unsure, in the dark. Hell, she'd be _grateful_ now to be able listen to a tirade about her 'never-ending righteousness.' She might even join in, if it meant getting out of here!

Wishful thinking was all well and good, of course. It wasn't going to get her anywhere, though.

She had been in the Selwyns' library when she'd been captured. She'd been looking through the writing bureau when, to her complete and utter horror, the fire in the grate had spontaneously lit and glowed a foreboding green. Terrified, she'd shut the drawer she'd been looking through and hurried to the far corner of the room. When Selwyn himself had unfurled from the fireplace, she had nearly cried out in her surprise.

He'd glanced around the room casually, and Hermione had had to fight to remember that she was invisible to him.

She'd watched him—her eyes wide, her breathing elevated, and her palms sweaty, hardly daring to believe that he was actually in front of her. Her mind had flooded instantaneously with possibilities. In hindsight she knew she should have acted straight away. A Binding spell; a Stunner; anything would have done.

Instead, and Hermione cursed herself as she thought back on it, she had become distracted—intrigued—by what he had been doing in the library. He'd walked purposefully towards the bookcase nearest her, and he had raised his wand to touch several spines, obviously in some sort of conscious pattern.

The bookcase had suddenly shimmered away before her eyes, and Selwyn had disappeared beyond it. Momentarily, he'd returned carrying a bundle of papers, which were swiftly thrown upon the fire. She'd watched intently as he returned to the hidden chamber. Was he getting rid of evidence? She found herself edging quietly towards the open bookcase. They might catch him, but he would hardly admit to everything willingly—they would need as much proof to his wrongdoings as possible.

She realised that it had been partly reckless for her to step into the chamber while he was occupied at the fireplace. But inside that dark, hugely dusty room, had been a veritable treasure trove. Stacked against one wall had been numerous frames, the canvases held within which were either slashed or scorched. Whatever, whomever, had resided within those paintings had long since been destroyed.

Papers were stacked on top of a chest, and before she knew was she was doing, she had swiped a small packet of letters and shoved them inside her robe. Just in case, she'd told herself.

Then, he was back, and she'd pressed herself tightly against the wall, holding her breath. When he had turned his back to her, she'd moved silently out of the room, intending that when next he should appear into the library, she would be ready and waiting for him.

It might have been easier to accept if the dust had caused her to sneeze and thus give herself away. How could she have helped that? But he was obviously subtler than that. He'd turned, papers in hand, and had done an almost double-take at the floor. She'd paused, suddenly afraid, and when she'd looked down, she had seen her own footprints visible on the dusty floorboards.

His moment of confusion had been enough for her to begin retreating further. But that was a mistake. His wand appeared and a spell had charged at her. She'd managed to dodge it, only to stumble into a nearby side table and send a vase crashing to the floor.

And that was the sum total of her sorry expedition to Cumbria. Next thing she was waking up here.

She could still see the glee on his face when her potion had worn off and he had discovered the identity of his captive.

'Oh, what a big fish I have caught!' he had said slyly, after which he had proceeded to obtain her wand. She had, in vain, tried to talk to him, but he had simply locked the door to her little cell and she was sure there was a Silencing spell on it. Hermione could shout all she wanted, but it wouldn't get her far.

She struggled against her bonds for the umpteenth time and groaned loudly with frustration when they moved not an inch. What on earth was she going to do? She struggled again and ceased when her shoulders began to protest painfully. For the longest time, she sat with her eyes closed tightly, focusing on calming herself and thinking rationally about her options. She did not like to think that there were none.

It was during this meditation that she realised she could sense something different. Her eyes flew open and she froze. She could hear something—there was talking coming from the next room. _Two_ voices. Hermione strained her ears to hear better, but the sounds were too quiet and indistinct to decipher.

She heard Selwyn laugh a false, bitter laugh, and she tried to shuffle herself closer to where she thought the door was. She wanted to know who was with him. Would it be Oakshott?

Soon, there was the sound of a spell being cast and then a partially raised voice that she was sure recognised the tone of. For a split second, she was caught up in a bizarre imagining that Snape was in cahoots with Selwyn. She admonished herself immediately and put it down to her shock at hearing his voice. He must have found a way here—had he come for her?

Selwyn's voice was becoming steadily louder and, Hermione could tell, steadily angrier. She could now make out some of what he was saying and none of it calmed her. It was taunts, and it was jibes, and she pushed against her bonds once more, worried at what might happen on the other side.

And then the talking stopped, and instead, all she could begin to hear was spells, crashes, bangs, growls and grunts. The sounds were all the more disturbing for her lack of picture to put them to. Hermione felt her breathing increase as she willed her bonds to come undone.

Silence descended once more, and she halted her struggles to hold her breath as she listened hard, trying to work out what was happening beyond. Her heart sank when she heard Selwyn's voice. And there was nothing—_nothing_ sounding from the other man in the room.

She let out a whimper as she tried to free her wrists. She couldn't let Selwyn triumph over him! She couldn't remain a useless bystander while Selwyn triumphed over them both! Anger at her impotency filled her while her heart beat hard with worry. Her wrist moved a little and she cried out with determination as she tried to wrench one of her hands free. She needed to free herself!

Suddenly, the rope around her wrists was gone—disappeared. Panting, she brought her arms round to her lap and rubbed each wrist in turn, shocked. Had she just experienced a burst of uncontrolled magic, as she had done previously as a child? There was no time to ponder on it. She turned her attention to releasing her feet. She pulled off her shoes and socks tried to find enough give in the rope to pull her foot through. Using as much strength as she possessed, she pushed against the rope, bringing it down over her heel. It was tight and pressed hard around her foot painfully when it refused to budge further. She was almost prepared to give up, but found a well of resolve within herself. With a few almighty tugs, the rope shifted and her foot was released. She was free.

Stuffing her feet back into her shoes, she stood up, breathing fast. The door was locked and she shook the handle uselessly. Not quite free. Resting her forehead against the door, she sighed. After all that, she would not be able to get out anyway.

A loud shout of pain from the other side of the door caused her to jump, and she automatically rattled the handle again. She banged on the door, but knew they would not hear her.

There were different noises to be heard now—not the sound of spells being cast. It was the sound physical fighting, she knew it. The sound of punches being thrown only served her to feel more determined about getting out. The door, she could tell, was wooden but not very thick. She shoved herself against it, hoping to anyone who was listening that the hinges were rusty, or that the lock should prove fallible. The door only shook in response to her action.

'What's the matter, Snape?' shouted Selwyn suddenly, his punctuated by large gasps. 'You reduced me to fighting like a Muggle; can't you take it when I prove worthy?'

There was a sound of a fierce blow and Hermione threw herself against the door once more.

'For God's sake!' she shouted angrily. What was she going to do?

There was a loud crashing noise, followed closely by a set of shouts. Hermione didn't think about it, she raised her leg and kicked her foot in the direction of what she hoped was the lock. Ignoring her body's protestations, she repeated the movement, putting as much force into it as she possessed. The door shook loudly, and after one particularly fierce kick, she shoved herself against the wood once more.

It gave way beneath her and she burst through the door, looking wildly about. She stopped short when her eyes alighted on the sight before her. Selwyn was lying on the floor, with Snape kneeling next to him, and Hermione felt her mouth fall open at the sight of the gun in his hand. They both jerked their heads towards her at her entrance, but Selwyn reacted first. He raised himself and made to grab at Snape's arm, though Snape quickly subdued him, pressing the gun into his cheek.

'You won't kill me, Severus.' Selwyn taunted, staring up at him. 'But then, you did murder Dumbledore in cold blood. I was impressed, I must say. You always did show such potential.'

Hermione shrank from the apparently real disappointment in Selwyn's voice. Snape said nothing, but the look on his face was of such barely restrained fury, that she experienced a sharp pang of worry. A wand lay near her and she grabbed it. It wasn't hers, it was Snape's. She aimed it at the both of them.

'Sir,' she said quietly, keeping her breathing under control. 'Sir, what are you doing?'

Still he said nothing. He only stared at the man currently at his mercy.

Hermione swallowed uneasily and ventured a step closer to them. 'Sir?'

'_Are_ you a coward, Snape?' whispered Selwyn snidely. 'A hypocrite _and_ a coward?'

Hermione saw Snape's fingers around the gun twitch, and she gasped; afraid. 'Sir!' she cried.

Snape looked at her then. His eyes were fierce as he took in his wand pointing in his direction.

'Sir, don't listen to him. It's finished; we have him.'

He blinked and looked again at Selwyn. An age seemed to pass, but as soon as Hermione saw the gun begin to move away from Selwyn, she shot multiple spells at their quarry. She hurried forward and knelt to ensure Selwyn really was immobile and bound. He was; the only movement was the blood that trickled down his face.

She was aware of Snape moving away and she turned her head to see that he was sitting on the floor, looking at something in the ether that wasn't there for her to see. Hermione returned to looking at Selwyn and realised she did not feel the triumph she had expected to feel. At that moment, she didn't know what she felt.

The gun sat on the floor and when she noticed it, Hermione longed to kick it away, out of sight. Snape sat nearby with his hands folded in his lap, looking oddly vulnerable in a way that unnerved her greatly. She tentatively moved to hold out his wand to him, but he did not seem to even register the action. She sat back on her heels and looked at the wand, before placing it between them on the floor.

'How, um… how did you know where we were?' she asked, her voice sounding hollow in the sudden oppressive stillness of the room.

He did not reply immediately, and when he did, it was not to answer her question. He blinked and moistened his lips. 'I might have done it, you know,' he said cryptically.

'Done what?' She knew what.

He looked at her finally. 'I might have killed him. Are you not wondering about what might have happened had you not appeared when you did?'

'Well…' The thought had crossed her mind, of course it had. Hermione made sure she looked him in the eye. 'Yes; I wondered, but I don't think you would have done it.'

He snorted dismissively. 'I wanted to.'

'You know, I heard some of what he was saying to you. No one can blame you for becoming angry. Selwyn is a dangerous man… And after all he has done, some might even say it was only what he would have deserved.' She wasn't sure it would have made it right, however. But she meant what she said—he would not have pulled the trigger. She liked to think she knew a little more about her former teacher than she had previously, and while he may have wanted to subdue or frighten Selwyn, he would not have gone as far as he appeared to believe himself capable.

His head shook minutely. 'I don't know… I thought I might like to be the one to enact judgement, for a change,' he mused. 'And yet, I don't think such power is meant for hands like mine.'

Hermione watched him, feeling helpless. His voice sounded so empty. She struggled for something to say—something useful. But there was nothing.

'What should I have done?' he questioned her suddenly. 'Tell me what you would have done in my place?'

Hermione was transported back to their argument of this morning. It seemed like months ago, but yes, it had only been this morning. She suddenly understood just what his point had been in saying those things he had to her. He had scorned her not because he thought her ridiculous, but because he felt she showed him to be wanting. With shame, she tried to recall if she had ever led him to believe that she thought him a lesser person than herself. She regretted it if she had, because it certainly wasn't what she thought.

He wasn't looking at her, and so she didn't bother to mask the rush of compassion that filled her.

She was not sure what she could say that he would listen to. There was something she wanted to _do_, however; as long as she had the courage for it. She inched closer to him, and he snapped his head at her, her movement obviously having startled him. Hermione froze. Courage or not, maybe she just shouldn't do it. She'd thought to try and embrace him might be to show that she… that she, what? Cared, maybe. But she could see now any action like that would be unwelcome from her, and maybe from anyone, in fact.

Instead, she laid a hand on his forearm, hoping that would be enough to suffice both of them. 'Sir,' she began softly. 'May I remind you that you did not kill Selwyn? You speak as though you had. I don't think you ever seriously considered pulling that trigger.'

After glancing fleetingly at her hand, he then stared at the floor, ignoring her. Hermione swallowed down her uncertainty and continued.

'I believe, earlier today, that I implied your standard of behaviour was less than what I considered typical of "any person." I think that is what I said. Well, I want you to know that I did not mean it. You think you are a bad person, but you are wrong. If we only talk about recently, you've done a great deal for me. Do you think I should have come this far on my own? And what about this morning? It was _you_ who thought of Oakshott's well-being—not me. I admit it, I had no thought for him until you reminded me. I know you are angry at many things, but anger does not make you a bad person either…'

Hermione trailed off, looking downwards. She wished she could be more eloquent on the matter, but it was hard. She looked at her hand on his arm and then let her gaze move to his hand. The sight of his knuckles, red and bloodied, caused her to nearly reach out grasp his hand in her own. As it was, she stopped herself just in time, but her hand hovered ineffectually above it.

She looked to see if he'd noticed, and to her embarrassment, he was watching her intently. She forgot her self-consciousness, though, when she realised she felt like they were sharing a moment of understanding, for the first time.

And then he touched her fingers, clasping them very briefly, before folding his arms together across his stomach.

Hermione curled her hand into a fist and brought it to rest on her thigh, her throat suddenly parched.

'I appreciate what you are saying, Miss Granger, but if you will forgive me for saying so, I believe it a matter more complex than perhaps you understand.'

It took her a moment to speak. 'You are probably right.' She wished it were not so.

Silence fell between them, and as much as Hermione felt she could sit in the quiet for hours, she knew they had much to do. 'Does anyone else know where we are?' Had he informed anyone of what had happened to her?

He looked at Selwyn and seemed to rouse himself from his abstracted air. 'I could not inform anyone about this as this location is guarded by a Secret-keeper, whom I believe is probably our friend there. We shall have to move him elsewhere before we send for the Aurors.'

Hermione nodded. 'I think we should go to Cunbria—to Selwyn's house and wait there. There are things there the Aurors should see.'

He looked mildly intrigued at her words, but evidently he was not feeling in the mood for an elaboration, for he asked for none. Hermione got to her feet and spotted her wand lying on the floor several feet away. She hurried over to it and picked it up. 'Did my wand work for him?' She hated the thought that Selwyn had been using it.

A low noise made her turn sharply, frightened for a moment that Selwyn had broken through her spells, but she saw that it had come from Snape. He was on his feet and a hand was pressed to the back of his head.

'What's wrong?' she asked in alarm.

He scowled darkly, removing his hand to rub his eyes and then touch a livid bruise on his cheekbone. He fixed her with an irritated look. 'Yes—your wand _did_ work.'

'Sorry…' She did feel like it was partly her fault. 'You should sit down. Is your head badly hurt?'

'Just a… knock,' he muttered. 'How do you want to move him?'

'He has Floo powder, but I suspect Apparition will be the best.' Hermione levitated Selwyn into the air and directed him out through the door. Outside, she sucked in a lungful of fresh air with relief, liking the feel of the drizzle falling on her face. She heard Snape's footsteps behind her.

Beyond the wards, they Apparated to Cumbria. Selwyn floated behind them while they moved closer to the house. They reached the edge of the overgrown lawn, and Hermione conjured her Patronus to relay a message to Harry and the Aurors at the Ministry.

Task done, she turned to her companion. He looked pensive.

'Come, let us have a quiet five minutes before the hullabaloo begins.' She smiled encouragingly and sat down on the low wall that framed the garden.

He sat down next to her, and she thought he might have been grateful for it for his shoulders seemed to relax a fraction. It only made her worry more for any injuries he might have sustained that he was keeping quiet. Selwyn hung in the air before them, unmoving.

In her heart, she felt a calm that she had not felt in a long while at the prospect that they had procured the means for Ron's return to health. And yet, she had expected to feel ecstatic—euphoric, even. Her relief, she knew, _was_ acute, but it was something she could not find within herself to express outwardly. Not at this moment, anyway. She knew why it was. It was because of the man next to her. Much was still unresolved for him, she realised, and she found she regretted immensely that it was so.

'I owe you a great deal, Professor Snape. I remember that I promised a favour to you before. Well, you should know it very much still stands. I hope you will remember it.'

She heard him sigh quietly. 'I want nothing from you, Miss Granger. You owe me nothing.'

'I think that I do, sir.'

He sighed again, but this time with irritation. 'Perhaps I could prevail upon you once more to desist in calling me by a title I no longer possess? You ignored it last time.'

Hermione blushed a little, but was rather surprised, nevertheless, that he had brought it up again. Maybe she had misjudged how much it bothered him. 'You never said what I should call you instead.'

'Ah yes, I suppose that without direction from me it would be a difficult one for you to call,' he replied dryly.

Hermione raised a hand to her cheeks, hoping to push away the redness from them. How silly it was that she found it so difficult to say his name out loud. _Severus_, she said in her mind.

'I think that me ceasing to call you 'sir' is rather poor recompense.'

He laced his fingers together and seemed preoccupied with them for a moment. 'I think… Well, you have done well here, Miss Granger.' He nodded towards Selwyn. 'You have a chance to begin again; I hope you use it wisely, better than I have, anyway. That will be enough for me.'

Hermione knew he was referring to Ron, and yes, he was right. Ron would be well, and they would all be together again, able to start their lives anew. And while she was struck that he should say such a thing to her, she was actually suddenly terrified.

'I'm afraid,' she blurted out, before she could stop herself.

She sensed, rather than saw, that he was looking at her. She forced herself to continue, believing that she needed to voice her feelings aloud.

'There was so much that was never said before Ron succumbed to the curse, that I… So much has happened since… I'm afraid that Ron might not be the same when he wakes up, and I'm afraid because I _know_ that I am not.'

Her eyes burned as she absorbed the meaning of her own words. But they were true. So much had happened… She was not the same person anymore. What would it mean?

'It is understandable you should feel that way, but I am sure when things are finally settled, you will feel differently.'

Hermione nodded. 'Yes.' The vehemence in her nod she was sure was only to make up for her lack of clarity inside. She strove to change the subject. 'Well, we know what I have gained from this, but what about you… Severus? What is there for you?' She ignored the stumble over his name with a steely determination.

Had he gained anything? She hoped there was something.

'For me…? Well… For me there is a lot to think about.'

Hermione felt her chest tighten, recalling any number of things he had said to her in recent weeks and wondering whether his perspective on any had changed. But before she could say anything, cracks of Apparition pierced the air and they could see several figures appearing at the bottom of the garden.

'Miss Granger, there is, after all, one thing you can do for me. This story will likely cause a stir; I should prefer that my part in all this to be kept to a minimum in the inevitable reams of newsprint that will be devoted to it.'

It did not surprise her that he wished to limit the extent of his involvement. She'd learnt enough about him lately to know that he craved only peace and quiet. 'Very well; I will try my best.'

He got to his feet then, and Hermione dimly followed suit. Harry soon rushed up to her and was speaking a mile a minute She could barely make any sense of him. She watched the Aurors seize Selwyn, and there were mutterings and murmurings and raised voices, all clamouring to know just what had happened.

Kingsley approached her with a small, pleased smile, but Hermione peered beyond him to see Snape, _Severus_, being led away by an Auror she did not know. To the Ministry, no doubt, where she would be required to go, as well.

'Merlin, Hermione, speak to me! Are you all right?' Harry looked at her, his eyes wide behind his glasses and she nodded distractedly.

'Um… yes…' Her hands felt clammy and she unconsciously wiped them on her robe.

Harry took her arm, squeezing it encouragingly and leading her away.

She would be all right—she would.

She _would_.

* * *

AN: Thank you : )


	18. Ready to Start

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**18. Ready to Start**

After his presence was no longer required at the Ministry, Severus had returned home. There was just one thing in mind he wanted to do. His body was tired, but his mind was not, and there was only one way to head off the repercussions of that conflicting state. He removed the phial of Dreamless Sleep he had purchased in Diagon Alley and downed it in one. Upstairs, he lay on the bed and waited for the slumber to come. A few hours of blissful nothingness would be a blessing after the day he had had.

So it was that he slept comfortably through the night, waking slowly early morning when the first dim light filtered through the curtains over his window. At the point of waking, he could not say the sleep had made him feel any better, physically. The lump on the back of his head throbbed; his shoulders and back ached with each protracted movement, and his face was bruised. He thought about getting up and finding something to tend to his ailments, but for the moment, lying in bed and feeling pathetic was a pastime he felt he could well indulge for a while longer.

There was nothing particularly to get up for, anyway.

He wondered what Granger was doing. How long would it take for the Aurors to get Selwyn into the hospital to dispel the curse he had placed on Weasley? By the end of the day, Weasley could be conscious, he realised. What a triumph for them all.

Severus sighed against the spark of resentment he felt; it was no good denying he had felt it. He resented anyone who was truly happy—always had. It was just one of many fundamental flaws he possessed. It was right up there with self-pity.

Granger was just lucky he hadn't lost control with Selwyn yesterday, he decided. He'd wanted to get the upper hand, and through remembering the firearm he had rashly placed in his pocket that day, he had achieved just that. Selwyn had never seen it coming, and his shock had been more than worth the lumps and bumps Severus had gone through to get to that point. Still, he wasn't sure that Granger was impressed to see him flashing such a weapon about. Maybe that's why he'd told her he'd wanted to pull the trigger—just to make her aversion a little bit more potent. Yet, for one wild second he was sure he _had_ contemplated it, but he told himself he wouldn't have done it. He _needed_ to know that he wouldn't have done it.

What must Granger think of him now? That he was unstable, perhaps? Maybe even dangerous?

In any case, he wasn't likely to see her again now that she had Weasley back; he did not have to bother himself any longer about her. What she thought was immaterial. He was back to his own devices again… Back to square one.

The thought disquieted him in some way. _Square bloody one_; yes, he was back to where he began. Alone—with only his morbid thoughts for company.

He sat up in bed and put his head in his hands, grimacing against the pulse of pain that followed. Hadn't he already begun to claw his way out of the pit he had created for himself? And would this be the point where he would slowly slide back down?

It could be, he realised. But he didn't want to go back there; he knew that now. Was it selfish for him to want to pass a few hours of the day without dwelling on all that had passed? He had learned, recently, that occupying himself did not necessarily mean to forget what had brought him here. He was quite certain he would never forget all that he had to regret. He should try, at least, to function in a way that was a fraction of 'normal'. Who would begrudge him that?

Even if there was no one around to see it, he could try.

He would have to, he realised; and so he did try. Keeping busy would be his first task—passing the long hours of the day in a way that kept his mind stimulated. One day, he took down all of his books and sorted through them. Another day, he spent hours rifling through several chests of potions he'd accumulated over the years, getting rid of those which had expired or were simply of no use to him. But he soon discovered that organising his possessions could only sustain him for so long.

He ventured out to the Muggle shops next and sourced himself some new reading material. He got his cauldron out and made some bruise pastes for the knocks he'd sustained whilst losing his dignity with Selwyn. And during that time, he thought he could come to find enjoyment again in brewing just for the sake of it. As long as he kept his mind focused on the job. Perhaps he would just brew potions for the rest of his life, he thought dryly. Fill his house with any manner of concoctions, just because he could. After all, what else was there to do with them? Would anyone ever want to buy his potions?

Thoughts of the future did not inspire him and he sought to keep them at bay. Taking each day as it came was enough for the time being. It was an improvement on his former way of life, in any case.

Nearly a fortnight following the capture of Selwyn, there was a knock on Severus' door—an anomaly in his tenuously re-established existence. Unbidden, his thoughts immediately turned to Granger. After all, it was only she who had had cause to visit his house in recent times, and yet, if it were her, he was at a loss as to why she should come now.

Curiosity, rather than any inherent sense of politeness, impelled him to put down his book and go to the front door. It was dark outside, and the orange glow of the nearby lamp-post in the street showcased that it was, indeed, Granger.

'Miss Granger,' he said flatly. 'What have I done to deserve this honour, I wonder?'

She was someone who, he'd noticed, usually took his sarcasm with good grace. Not how he intended for it to be taken, certainly, but he could not deny it was easier than to have her taking offence at every little thing he said. Now, however, she ignored it completely.

'May I come in?' she asked quietly.

Severus shrugged and stood aside. He followed her and took his seat by the fire. She waited for him to give indication that she should sit also.

'Thank you, Professor Snape,' she replied formally to his half-hearted wave of his hand.

He thought they both might have winced. A certain part of him shrank away from establishing the certain air of familiarity that using first-names implied. But he had decided he would rather risk that than feel impatient every time she uttered 'sir' or 'professor'. Which she did often.

'Sorry,' she muttered.

He noticed then that she actually looked rather terrible. Her eyes were heavy with tiredness, her complexion was wan, and her hair was rather limp compared to the frazzled mass he was used to seeing. He allowed himself to admit inwardly that he felt concerned—intrigued, maybe.

'I am sorry it has taken me so long to come,' she began.

Severus hid a look of surprise. She had intended to come here? He wondered why on earth why.

'But, I'm sorry to say, I have not had chance… Things have not been easy…'

Severus had not had much practice with tearful reunions, so he took her word for it. Perhaps they were more stressful than he realised. However, she evidently recognised his blank look, for she nodded. 'I thought you probably hadn't heard.'

He wasn't sure they were partaking of the same conversation, and his blank look remained.

She looked at her lap and smoothed her cloak repeatedly 'You see, um…' She gave a quiet resentful laugh. 'It um… It didn't work, you see.'

Severus felt his blood come to a halt in his veins. 'I'm sorry?'

She looked at him and her eyes shone with tears. 'Ron hasn't woken up! They got Selwyn to remove the curse, but nothing has changed!'

Severus watched uncomfortably as she pressed her fingers to her eyes and breathed heavily.

'I don't understand,' he admitted slowly.

'No one does.' She swallowed down a choked sob and she seemed to work hard to bring her emotions under control. He was grateful for it.

'The irony,' she whispered. 'The irony was too much for me to take, at first.'

Severus looked into the fire, feeling that she was right; the irony was rather ghastly. All the trouble they had gone to… Why on earth hadn't it worked?

'But,' she continued shakily. 'Selwyn is in Azkaban and won't be getting out in this lifetime. That is a result to be proud of, even if we'd not got everything we'd hoped for, hmm?'

'Of course,' he agreed in a murmur, feeling a spark of admiration from somewhere inside him that he usually paid little attention. 'But, are you so sure things are bleak for Mr Weasley? Tell me exactly what happened. Are you quite sure it wasn't Selwyn's wand? You said it had previously been broken and repaired.'

'That is what we first thought, but you see, the curse itself _has_ gone. The Healers cannot find any trace of it. The effects, however, have not diminished. I think Selwyn knew it might happen, as he was unusually tractable, I heard, when the Aurors brought him to the hospital. And he burst out laughing when they took him away from Ron.'

Severus closed his eyes for a moment, able to imagine exactly the expression Selwyn might have worn. He frowned in thought. He supposed it was not unheard of for certain effects to remain after the removal of a curse, though he had not anticipated in this instance it would be so, especially to this extent. 'I fear, Miss Granger, that the curse should have been contained at the onset. It appears that its influence on Mr Weasley has become alarmingly strong in the meantime.'

She only nodded.

Severus felt his mind suddenly flood with possibilities. It was interesting, because now the curse was removed, and the source of the Dark magic removed, it was not entirely impossible that effects could not be treated. Theoretically, there was no reason why the effects could not be reversed.

'The Healers have tried an Invigoration draught, I take it?'

She nodded again.

Severus drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. Oh yes, it was very interesting. Why the hell had she taken so long to tell him about it? He got to his feet. 'Miss Granger, I have some matters I need to attend to…'

The look that passed over her face gave him significant surprise. 'Oh, sorry… I'm sorry for intruding.' She stood up blushing hotly, looking anywhere but at himself. With a curt 'goodbye', she hurriedly left.

Severus felt a twinge of conscience interrupt his whirring thoughts. He hadn't meant to be rude… He could feel a burst of energy coming upon him and he knew he had to capitalise on it while he could. She had looked… disappointed. It was novel, certainly… But he pushed any thought of her from his mind; he had no time for fathoming her out right now. Neither did he wish to give anyone false hope where there might be none; he'd keep his ideas to himself for now. The last thing he needed was her chattering away in his ear while he needed to think.

And ideas were all they were right now.

He knew exactly what type of potions the Healers used at St. Mungo's. Tried, tested, and authenticated potions. A variation on an Invigoration draught seemed to him the way to go. A standard one was not complex enough to overcome the Dark magic in Weasley's system. And Healers, of course, these days, were not encouraged to keep themselves well-informed in matters of the Dark Arts.

The old maxim was fight fire with fire. The Invigoration draught was being inhibited from working by the Dark magic. By introducing another element of Dark magic, to subsume or weaken that which was already present in Weasley's system… And then there would need to be a way of neutralising, or siphoning out, the Dark magic that remained...

Granger had said the effects of the curse had been like the Draught of Living Death; well, he knew that potion inside out, as well as its cure. That would be his starting point.

He moved to his bookshelves and began pulling out texts that could prove useful, of which he had many. He knew he might have to venture up into the attic and find one of the more controversial tomes he had in his possession. Still, no one would need to know where he'd obtained his reading material.

Severus was rummaging through the clutter in his living room, looking for some parchment and a quill, and finding only a dried up inkwell, when he felt a metaphorical cloud pass through his mind. He stopped and contemplated the mess he'd made.

What was he doing?

He had nothing. He had hardly any basic writing implements, let alone the space, the equipment, or the ingredients for embarking on a complicated brewing process! This was not knocking up a Headache solution in a mere matter of minutes. He could not do it in his house.

Where else was there?

He closed his eyes against the answer ringing loudly in his ears. Surely he didn't care enough about Weasley to go to gallivanting off to Hogwarts—again? Merlin—surely he was slowly cracking up?

He folded himself into his chair. It was the same conundrum as last time, really. It was not about caring, as such; it was about him possibly having an answer. He could decide for himself this time that this was the right thing to do. Selwyn had been right; he'd sat back one too many times, regardless of whether by choice or by design.

He could ignore that it was Weasley.

He could ignore Hogwarts. He'd been back before; he could go again.

And so, some few days later, he'd betaken himself back to the one place he dreaded above all others.

He'd chosen his old office in which to brew again. No one disturbed him in here. In fact, he'd ensured it so hardly anyone knew he was in the castle. He made sure he did not stay in the school any longer than he needed to each day. He did not take any meals or walks—he worked on the mixtures he was developing, and escaped home when his presence was no longer required.

But there was one interruption he was anticipating, and had been since he'd first arrived in the castle. So when the door knocked during one of his brewing session, he felt he knew who it would be.

It would be Minerva.

She had not been in the castle when he'd arrived (Providence working in his favour, for once) and it had been Filius, along with Horace's full agreement, who had given him permission to make use of the dungeons and Hogwarts' brewing equipment. A few days had passed since then, but he had known she would not ignore him, as he endeavoured to do with her.

The door opened without his go-ahead and he was proved right. The Headmistress stood before him, as stern as ever. He forced himself not to look immediately away.

'Can't talk now,' he muttered irritably, making a show of stirring the potion in front of him. She didn't need to know it was a superfluous action.

'_Talk_,' she said quiet, ponderous voice. 'I've not come to expect nearly so much from you, Severus, unfortunately. But I don't mind waiting.'

To his horror, she closed the door and proceeded to sit at a nearby table. She pulled out a scroll and began reading it casually.

Severus looked into his cauldron uneasily. He could not stand here all day and pretend his concoction was at a critical stage. But if it was a battle of the wills she wanted, he could damn well try. He would start by sharpening his knife; he'd always found that action satisfying in moments of high tension. Maybe the sound would irritate her into retreating.

He almost sliced his hand off when she said blithely, 'I've never seen you in a Muggle jumper before. It makes you look almost commonplace.'

He resisted the urge to tug at said garment. He steadfastly ignored her, but after a few moments of quiet, she spoke again.

'I think it's wonderful what you are doing for Mr Weasley.'

Severus clenched his jaw, feeling his cheeks heat up a little. He knew what she was doing. These were no random observations; they were carefully measured to rile him up. And she _knew_ he hated having attention drawn to himself.

He would not rise to it. He began skinning a Shrivelfig. It was unnecessary, but Horace wouldn't mind him wasting one or two.

'I heard you saved Miss Granger without thought for your own safe—'

Severus slammed his knife down. 'Minerva! Can you not see that I am trying to concentrate here?'

'I know you used to like to remind me how "woefully inadequate" my knowledge of Potions was, but even I can see you've skinned that Shrivelfig to within an inch of it's life!'

Severus flung the mutilated Shrivelfig onto the table. 'Fine; what do you want?'

She surveyed him for a moment and Severus felt entirely uncomfortable. It was situations like this he had hoped to avoid.

'Come and sit with me,' she ordered, producing a bottle of whisky and two glasses.

Severus grimly complied. If Dumbledore's panacea had been sweets; Minerva's had always been a stiff drink. He knew which he preferred.

He picked up the tumbler and resisted the urge to swallow it in one. That certainly would have been to play into her hands.

'Look at me, Severus,' she said suddenly.

He froze, but only for a moment. He raised his eyes stubbornly, and his expression was one as if to say, '_There_!'

She nodded gently. 'I am glad to see that you can, I had wondered, you see, why you seemed to have difficulty—'

Severus groaned and closed his eyes, passing a hand over his forehead. 'Minerva, stop. I don't want to talk about this—about anything!'

'I _do_ want to talk about it,' she pressed. 'You have not been able to even look at me, or talk to me, and it has bothered me.' She faltered then, and Severus braced himself. 'I… I am sorry that we all believed… That we treated you—'

Severus could barely hear her over his impulses telling him to get up and go. 'Minerva, please, there is… We don't need to discuss this.'

'We do, Severus. I would like to think we could still be—'

'This is not what we do, Minerva,' he urged, hoping he didn't sound as desperate as he felt. He thought he knew what she was going to say before he'd cut her off. _Friends. __'_We don't talk about… such things; why start now? Just forget about it.'

She sighed a little and placed her palms flat on the tabletop. 'Severus, I can tell you resent me for the fact I believed you were loyal to Voldemort. I said some awful things to you during that time! I _would_ like to think we can still be friends. Tell me what I can do so that it may be so.'

Severus stared at her with wide-eyes for several moments, full of disbelief. Then he felt laughter bubble up inside. He shook his head and allowed the chuckles to escape.

Minerva looked highly confused.

Severus only laughed harder before the bitterness took hold. Some people were just… priceless. All this time, she had been blaming her actions. He couldn't contain himself any longer. 'For Merlin's sake, Minerva!' he exclaimed in astonishment. 'You were _supposed_ to think I was a conforming Death Eater!'

She bridled defensively. 'You do not resent that no one, _no one_, thought enough of you to doubt you?'

Of course he resented it. He'd resented it _every single bloody day _he'd had to appear before hundreds of hateful eyes in the Great Hall, and more. The only thing that had kept him going was that he had known the danger of resentment. He could have let it consume him—drive him; but he'd had stronger motivations to keep his eye focused on the goal.

'There was _no_ reasonable doubt, Minerva,' he stated flatly. 'I made sure there was not.'

She looked away, then, and it gave him a sense of triumph that translated into the impetus for him to continue with his next words.

'Isn't it obvious why I can't bear to face you?' he hissed savagely. 'I _did_ kill Dumbledore, you know. Do you remember him? He was _your_ friend.'

Silence stretched out between them as they each absorbed what had been said.

Minerva spoke first, her voice pensive. 'He was my friend, true. I'd known him for years; _decades_, even, and I thought I knew him, Severus; I _thought_ I knew him. However, it transpires that I did not. I knew _a_ Dumbledore, but I did not know the one who calculatingly manoeuvred every little piece in to place—the one who groomed a young boy; the one who asked you to end his life. I did not know that person, Severus.' She plucked at her sleeves a little uncomfortably. 'I miss him, of course, but I don't blame you for his death.'

Severus felt his blood rush in his ears, and he thought hard for something to say. 'I won't say that you are being too hard on him, Minerva, but I will say that I think he… preferred being the Dumbledore you knew.'

He was not normally one for offering comfort, especially when he wasn't even sure he believed his own words. Her answering smile was more of a grimace, and he felt she probably didn't believe him either.

'I hope we can put the past behind us, Severus.'

And that was the crux of the matter. He _had_ been disappointed, secretly, at Minerva's obvious hatred of him during that time he was Headmaster. They'd been colleagues for years, and while there had often been friction between them, it had still meant something to him. Otherwise, why else would he feel the shame whenever he looked at her?

'As perhaps you may have been able to tell, I'm not finding it easy to put any of the past behind me.' He thought it might be a costly admission to make, but once the echo of his words had faded away, he found his discomfort was not as sharp as it might have been.

'It is not easy; in fact it is damned hard.' The corners of her eyes crinkled for a moment behind her glasses. 'But somehow, Severus, you will come to learn to live with it—'

'There is _too_ much for me to get my head around, Minerva,' he interrupted swiftly. How he hated _talk_, sometimes. Words were just words, in the end.

'Then you must take whatever it is that troubles you and deal with them each in turn. You must reconcile yourself to the fact that the past cannot be changed, Severus. No one is going to condemn you for living a life, except for yourself. Locking yourself away in your house is not living.'

Severus huffed. 'Minerva, I much prefer it when you are your prim self, you know. If it's not Granger waffling on about being a good person, it's you giving motivational speeches!'

Minerva smiled despite herself. 'I'm just glad to clear the air between us, Severus, because I can't discard my primness for long, let me tell you! Now you have no excuse not to join me in my office for a chat when I desire it. So I will leave you to your brewing and see you later.'

He scowled as she left, but inwardly, he felt a certain amount of relief and gratitude. He'd worried himself for so long over facing her again, to the point where he had decided he wouldn't ever do it. And he was sure he wouldn't have, had it not been for Granger dragging him here a few weeks back. He hated to think it, but it had been cowardly to ignore Minerva. He hadn't wanted to see the disgust in her eyes that he felt sure would still be there, even after the truth about himself was universally acknowledged.

But things had not transpired to be so bleak as he'd imagined. He'd faced up to his shame she roused in him and found that it might be something he could learn to deal with.

There were many other things he should confront head on; things he had shunned for as long as years and years. He was a brave man wasn't he? That was the source of what integrity he had that he clung to.

He dealt with the memories every day—it was pathetic that he was afraid of the physical reminders. He should confront them, and face them, and as Minerva said, reconcile himself to them.

Severus got to his feet and stormed out through the dungeons with a determination and a purpose he had not experienced in a long time. He ascended steadily up through the higher levels of the castle. There was only one destination in mind and he forcibly blocked any thoughts from his mind that might serve to deter him.

He only stopped for a breath when he came to halt in the middle of the Astronomy tower. His first thought was that it looked different from what he remembered. He sighed and went to lean against the balustrade, looking towards the lake.

'This is where I killed you, Albus,' he whispered into the wind.

Severus turned and looked back around the tower, and he was struck by the fact that it was… just a tower. There was nothing to suggest anything had ever gone on here, and he wasn't sure whether that was right or not. Shouldn't there be some commemoration proclaiming this was where the great Albus Dumbledore had fallen? Still, he was glad there wasn't.

The stimulus he had felt from his talk with Minerva disintegrated into something far cooler at the grave realisation of what he was doing—what he had done in coming up here. He felt cold and tense, but oddly focused and calm.

He pushed away from the wall, knowing that if he could come up here, there was somewhere in else at Hogwarts he needed to go.

Dumbledore's tomb.

He approached it slowly and stared at the words engraved upon it for the longest time. Dumbledore, in his often tiresome omniscience, had never feared death. Death, he had always said, was but the next adventure. Severus had never found such proclamations comforting. Dumbledore may have had his own regrets to take with him into whatever semblance of afterlife there was, but he did not know what it was to die with a life unfulfilled.

Severus had been close to death once, and he couldn't help but wonder how he would have found death an adventure when life had been so utterly disappointing. In what way would the afterlife have been any different for him? If anything, it might even have been worse.

He turned away from the tomb. Dumbledore, ironically, was not the one to hear his regrets, for he wasn't sure the Headmaster had ever understood them in first place. Severus knew he had not understood precisely what he'd asked of him that night on the Astronomy tower.

Dumbledore had seen his death as a necessary sacrifice. In some ways it had been a selfless decision, and yet, Severus didn't think it had ever occurred to Dumbledore as being a selfish one, too. And maybe, Severus realised, it was better that it hadn't. Where would they be now if Dumbledore had not had strength and conviction for the things he had done?

And Severus realised his attitude towards his own death was just as cavalier as Dumbledore's had been. Where would they be if he had _truly_ feared the prospect of his death and the uncertainty of what would have awaited him thereafter?

The answers to any of these questions, he would never really know.

And maybe he needed to remember that they were answers he never _wanted_ to know. Yes, he had to learn to live with his past actions, but if he hadn't committed them, what would have been the alternative?

Take one for the team, as they say; that had been his role—the role he'd chosen.

Voldemort was no more; he'd done what he could to ensure it would be so.

What was more important than that?

* * *

AN: Thanks for reading and reviewing.


	19. Unintended Choice

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**19. Unintended Choice**

The island was as windswept as ever as Hermione walked towards the little church in the village of Blackwaterfoot. The skies were leaden, and but for rain, it would have been a more than fitting atmosphere for a funeral. How many funerals she had been to in recent years, she did not like to think. A stark contrast to her sheltered, misery-free childhood, indeed.

The vicar stood in the doorway to greet the mourners, of which Hermione felt there would be few. As she entered the church and took a solitary seat in one of the pews, she could see she was right. A handful of villagers had turned out to see Josiah Abbott, otherwise known to her as Arthur Selwyn, laid to rest.

John Mortimer was not present. The news that his nephew had not died as a young child, but had been adopted and raised as a Muggle had affected him badly. He was currently under the care of Healers at St. Mungo's.

The Ministry, though they accepted Abbott's true identity, had chosen not to interfere where the body was concerned. They were content to leave the Muggles in no doubt that he was, and had only ever been, Josiah Abbott. In the way that it mattered most, Hermione supposed it was true. He had lived his life as Josiah Abbott. Although, she was unsure as to what he had been told by his brother Horatio, prior to his death. She hoped with all her heart it hadn't been the truth.

From the other side of the church, a head turned towards her and she caught the eye of a man. It was Macpherson, the postmaster whom she had spoken to about Abbott one time. She smiled gently at him.

It had come out, of course, even to the Muggles, that Abbott had not met his death in the fire that gutted Thistledown cottage. The Muggles had recorded Abbott's death as accidental, though the question remained why he should have been all the way south of the border, in Cumbria, when he'd previously never left Arran in his life.

It was one of the reasons why Hermione had decided to come. She'd felt it only right that someone should be at the funeral who knew the truth. Someone who knew the truth of Abbott's true identity and of the terrible circumstances around his death. She knew how he had been coldly manipulated by his own brother. Selwyn had admitted as much to the Aurors under questioning.

She had thought to ask Snape to accompany her to the funeral. Not that she considered he was the sentimental sort he would no doubt proclaim her to be, but still, she had been prepared to ask. Prepared, that was, until he'd brusquely told her she was intruding on his time. It _still_ made her bristle when she thought back to it, and she repeatedly told herself she should not take anything he said or did personally. Easier said than done, of course.

Now that she was here, however, she felt glad she had come alone. Harry or Ginny would have joined her, she knew, but they hadn't been involved in any of this. They could not know how she felt about how the events had unfolded.

The service was short, but Hermione felt the dignity of the occasion keenly and she was grateful that Abbott had been able to have this. If the truth had never come out, his body might have languished, un-commemorated, in the grounds of Azkaban.

When they filed out of the church, Hermione exchanged a few words with Macpherson. He was still under the impression that she was a distant family relative, and she said nothing to disabuse him of the notion. He seemed happy that a family member had been present and how could she disappoint him with the truth?

Afterwards, she went for a walk across the moors to Thistledown cottage. She had not seen it since the fire and she wanted to see it, for it was the scene of another Selwyn's crimes.

The blackened rafters were visible before anything else as she moved up the gently sloping hill. She stood at the top and simply looked. Oakshott had not deserved the end he had got. He'd been a fractious man towards them, but he had been doing his job, and Hermione, in hindsight, could not fault him for that.

The two deaths troubled her a great deal, for she wondered as to her own part in them. Through taking up the idea to bring Selwyn to account, had she facilitated—_precipitated_—the deaths of Josiah Abbott and Inspector Oakshott? After all, if she and Snape hadn't frightened Selwyn into taking strong action to ensure he remained hidden…

Even as someone emotionally invested in Selwyn's capture, she could see that Ron's recovery could not justify the deaths of two innocent people. Was that why Ron had failed to wake up—to balance the right and wrongs of what she had brought about? She remembered how Snape had scoffed at the idea of some karmic or Divine force balancing out justice. Maybe he was right. She couldn't have foreseen—_no one _could have foreseen, what her actions would lead to.

Some might say that losing a few was a sacrifice to save the many. It was an axiom she had heard bandied about at many a memorial service in recent months. And there was no question they were better off with men like Selwyn behind bars, but the _cost_…

With the focus on the 'greater good,' no one ever seemed to consider the cost until it was too late. Well, she at least could acknowledge the cost, and she could respect it in the face of very little else.

Hermione surveyed the cottage for a few moments longer and tried to remember the last time when she had thought life was anything other than hard. She couldn't readily recall such a time, however, and instead, she Apparated away.

* * *

'Do you think we should consult Snape, again?' asked Harry ponderously. 'Clearly, what he doesn't know about Dark curses isn't worth knowing about.'

They were sitting in the cafeteria in St. Mungo's, sipping from cups of tea. Hermione leant back in her chair and fiddled with tightening her ponytail, feeling a little uncomfortable. 'I've already told him what happened. He didn't seem interested in the slightest.'

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt uncharitable towards the man in question.

'Oh,' said Harry.

Hermione stared hard at the _Prophet_ on the table before her. She was right, though, wasn't she? He hadn't seemed interested, it was as simple as that. Stubbornly, she blocked out the hurt she still felt at the most inopportune of moments. She supposed it wasn't really his fault; he didn't have the answer to everything, after all, and he had no personal attachment to Ron… Maybe her vanity just liked to think he would have at least listened to her. What matters had he to deal with in the late evening? He'd led her to believe he did very little.

She did not need to trouble herself over it—she just needed to forget about it. It was done with. They'd work something out for Ron, surely—eventually.

She shoved the _Prophet_ away from her with a grimace. It was filled, still, with speculation about Selwyn and the Ministry's dealings with the Muggle government. In the end, following the news of Oakshott's death, the powers that be had not managed to keep everything under wraps. As far as Hermione could tell, the reaction of the Wizarding public had not been enthusiastic to say the least, especially at the news that Muggles had become involved in affairs of the Wizarding world. There were calls clamouring for there to be a public inquiry into the Ministry's relations with their Muggle counterparts, but the likelihood of such a thing occurring were looking slim.

The _Prophet_ had played its part in heating up the debate by printing scare-mongering articles about the influence of Muggle politics in the running of the Ministry of Magic. They'd posited any number of exaggerated outcomes to arise from such influence, which the Ministry had had to flatly deny. The only positive to come from it all was to see the _Prophet_ finally show some autonomy from the political structure. Certainly the Ministry were unhappy with the newspaper because of it.

Truth be told, while the reports were fanciful, Hermione found it all immensely disquieting. The last thing that they needed was for even more hatred and distrust of Muggles to be stirred up than there already was, and she rather hoped, naively or not, that it would all die down in the end.

She'd had her own dealings with the _Prophet_ when the story of Selwyn's capture had come out. The impression she'd got was that they'd hoped to find Harry had been involved, so they could once again laud him unequivocally, but when they'd discovered it was only Severus Snape who'd helped her, the reporters had turned rather more inquisitive and searching.

As per Snape's request, she had tried her best to wrangle it so the depth of his part in it all was kept amongst only those who needed to know, but it had been mostly out of her hands. Bit by bit, the story had leaked out and, of course, then there had been mutterings about why he should have been involved at all. The most ridiculous speculations focusing on his motivations and whether they were sinister or not—had he hoped to help, rather than hinder, a 'former friend?'

Hermione couldn't countenance any of the rubbish whenever she saw it, and she made sure everyone else she knew did not listen to it, either.

Harry had been staring hard into his tea and she watched him for a moment, wishing they were back in their third year, reading tea-leaves in Divination. He looked up when he felt eyes upon him.

'The um, the Healers reckon we should leave it a little longer before we try anything else. They said it may be that Ron's body just needs to get used to the curse being gone, and that in time, his body will begin to overcome the effects on its own.'

'But how long do we wait, Harry?' Hermione sighed. 'Do they even have any other ideas left to try, anyway? I think they're well and truly stumped. Like all of us.'

They each shared a grim look.

'I've been thinking I should go back to Hogwarts and comb the Restricted Section, again.'

'How many times is that now?' asked Harry with a small smile.

'Well, one more time won't hurt.' She returned his smile. 'We're in a slightly different position than we were before—it might help to look at the problem from a different angle.'

'Is there anything I can do, Hermione? I feel useless.'

Hermione reached over the table and squeezed his hand. 'I'll let you know as soon as I find anything.'

The Headmistress had replied promptly to the quick note she had sent about her request, and the next day Hermione was invited for 'tea and a chat' with McGonagall in her office.

McGonagall welcomed her warmly, as she always did, and ushered her into a chair not in front of her desk, but by the fireplace. The older woman took the chair on the other side, whereupon a house-elf appeared with a tea tray.

'Well, my dear,' said McGonagall, 'you know you are always welcome to use the library whenever you need to. I wouldn't even bother asking next time! I am only sorry you don't need it for more leisurely pursuits.'

'Thank you, Professor.'

McGonagall sipped her tea and occupied herself with the biscuits, selecting a piece of shortbread. 'Does, ah, does Severus know you are taking your own line with regards to Mr Weasley's current condition?'

Hermione felt momentarily bemused. 'Does it matter what Professor Snape does or doesn't know? I should imagine he does… In any case, he wasn't much for discussing it when I told him what had happened, and that's fine; I've asked a lot of him lately.'

Hermione quickly picked up a biscuit in what she hoped was a study in nonchalance.

'I see…' commented McGonagall carefully, and Hermione failed to register the pensive tone to her voice.

'Who teaches Defence Against the Dark Arts now, if you don't mind me asking?'

'Oh, Algernon Cressley—former Auror and curse-breaker.'

'There are some points on which I'd like clarification with regard to curses; do you think he'd agree to speak with me?'

'I don't doubt it.'

Hermione nodded her thanks. They'd consulted several curse-breakers at the onset, many of whom Bill Weasley had known personally. But they'd all said the same thing at the time—that the curse had to be removed by the caster. The situation was different now, and maybe there was a way forward if they looked hard enough.

McGonagall was pursing her lips in thought. 'It's difficult these days, Hermione, to find anyone willing to admit a good knowledge of Dark magic. It is so heavily frowned upon, as I'm sure you are aware.'

Hermione knew what she was trying to say. _Don't expect too much from Cressley._

'Now, Severus, on the other hand…'

'I'd rather not trouble, ah, Professor Snape, if I can help it.' Hermione was suddenly too embarrassed to reveal to McGonagall that she was on first-name terms with the former Potions master. 'I've no doubt he has got his own matters to contend with.'

But it was true, she realised—he _did_ have matters to attend to, and she'd known it all along. She'd not been able to adequately judge his frame of mind during that short conversation she'd had with him the other night, but she knew that he had much to occupy it that did not concern her. He had matters to sort out certainly; matters to do with himself, and she did not mean that in any selfish way.

'He said as much to me, anyway.'

'Did he?' enquired McGonagall casually.

'Yes… Besides, I'd like to do my own research first—to gather what facts there are.'

The Headmistress looked as if she were weighing up something in her mind, but in the end, she just smiled and said, 'Of course.'

* * *

Hermione returned directly to St. Mungo's from Hogwarts. In her bag she had a few sheafs of parchment, upon which were copious amounts of meticulous notes. She had found some pearls of wisdom that may prove useful. From what she had read, it did seem the Healers may have had a point when suggesting that they just needed to wait—to allow the Dark magic to weaken over time.

But no one knew how long that wait would be.

There were other avenues to explore in terms of shortening that wait. She'd found a rather arcane, dusty tome on Dark curses of the incapacitating kind, and it seemed to her that it might be possible to hasten the weakening of the magic in Ron's body. As far as she could tell, it would involve the use of more Dark magic, however…

Harry came out of Ron's room, as she rounded into the corridor, and his expression became immediately expectant.

Hermione suppressed a defeated sigh.

'Any luck?' he asked, as he approached her.

'Some; well, possibly. I will—' She cut herself off when something caught her eye at the far end of the corridor. A long, black coat…

'All right, Hermione?'

She blinked. What the hell was she doing? 'Sorry, thought I saw someone, but I was mistaken. Um, what was I saying? Yes, it wasn't a wasted journey. I shall be going back tomorrow, as I'm going to have a chat with the Defence teacher about what I've found.'

Harry nodded and drew her into Ron's room. Hermione sought to chase away the cobwebs in her mind. She'd thought she'd seen Snape disappearing down the corridor, but clearly she was imagining things. Though, why she should take to imagining him, she could not say.

Charlie and George were sitting by Ron's bedside and she greeted them with forced brightness.

'Listen to this, Hermione,' said George eagerly, looking to his brother, Charlie.

Charlie cleared his throat. 'I've been thinking; you've been looking for books to help us, Hermione, but let's face it, it's not easy to get hold of books on Dark magic—I mean truly Dark magic. Now, in Romania, there is not the restriction that there is here. I was thinking I might return there and do some searching of my own.'

Hermione sat down and bit her lip in thought. 'I agree that you are likely to find something more relevant there than you would here, but…'

They all looked at her, urging her to continue with her obvious doubts.

'I just… I mean, what do we _know_ about Dark magic, really? Would we know what to do with any information we found? It could be highly dangerous. Not to mention the trouble we could be in if the Mnistry found out we'd smuggled potentially illegal books into the country.'

To her slight annoyance, they were all smiling at her, as if they'd entirely anticipated her reaction.

'Hermione, we're not suggesting we mess about with magic we do not understand. But can't you get Snape to help us out when we've found something?' George asked.

_Merlin—again?_

Hermione shrugged her shoulders, not wanting to get into it all. 'I suppose we can try… Let's just wait and see what Hogwarts turns up, all right?'

Personally, she felt very uneasy about it. None of them really knew what it was to use Dark magic, or what it took to cast it. Clearly, it could be dangerous, otherwise it would not forbidden. Furthermore, Hermione was unsure about the intent needed to be behind the casting of Dark magic. It wouldn't be called _Dark_ magic if it could be used with benign intentions in mind!

Even if Snape were receptive to any approach, from what she could tell, she was not sure he would want to be involved in anything Dark. And, really, she did not want to be the one to ask him of it. She couldn't explain her concerns to the rest of them. They would likely be dismissive, and besides, she didn't want to be the one to dampen their spirits. Not at this moment, anyway.

Her hope remained that she would find something that did not involve tracking down Dark books in far-flung countries.

She turned her attention to the comatose Ron. The moment of his waking she had imagined a hundred or more times. And since that elusive moment had, for a time, been closer than ever, she felt all the more anxious for it to happen. They all needed him to get better. Mrs Weasley was beginning to struggle under the strain, and to see the normally indomitable Molly so downhearted was no easy sight.

Yet, she had not been lying when she had told Snape she was afraid. She had no idea what to expect if ever he did awaken—nothing in terms of his mental and physical state.

But she was more than willing to brave the difficulties if it meant they might speak once more.

That afternoon, she left the hospital to go and purchase some more parchment and ink for her trip to Hogwarts the following day. As she was walking down Diagon Alley, Hermione saw Severus Snape again. And this time, it wasn't her imagination playing tricks on her.

She easily picked out his dark form heading up the steps into Gringotts; bank. The sight left her with a disconcerting sense of deja-vu as her mind recalled that day when she had charged towards him and got her finger sliced off for her trouble. She looked at the finger in question. There was not a mark left to signify that occurrence—just the memory.

She should just walk on. He was hardly likely to want to speak with her, but annoyingly, Hermione found herself wanting to place herself within his path. Stubbornly, she turned and looked into the window of the shop nearest her. It was Potage's Potion supplies. Even more irritated, she forced herself to walk forwards, her head down.

She paused by the Magical Menagerie and allowed herself a glance towards the bank again. This time, she saw another face she recognised. Professor McGonagall stood waiting at the bottom of the steps. Hermione instinctively found herself stepping in her direction, but she halted when Snape came out of the bank and she realised McGonagall was obviously waiting for him.

From the other side of the street, Hermione watched them exchange a few words, and she was startled when she thought she saw a small smile stretch around Snape's mouth. Momentarily frozen, she only had the presence of mind to rush inside the menagerie when her two former teachers began walking in her direction.

Gazing blankly at a cage full of mice, Hermione wondered when it was that Snape and McGonagall had re-established themselves on good terms. She had not forgotten that painfully awkward evening she had spent with them at Hogwarts. She was pleased that things had changed, of course, but being pleased didn't stop the oddly sick feeling in her stomach, the origins of which she was too confused to contemplate.

'Do you want a mouse, dear?' enquired the witch behind the counter. 'Or was it something else you're looking for?'

Hermione roused herself with a jolt. 'Oh, no, I don't know what I want… Um, I'm just looking.'

Hermione smiled awkwardly, and as soon as she felt it polite, she hurriedly left the shop. She took a few breaths of air before heading back to the Leaky Cauldron.

He'd smiled. She was sure of it.

Immediately, she grimaced. Why was she even thinking about it? So, she'd never seen it before… What did it matter?

She blinked hard, looking around the street with a purposeful gaze. What would she ask Cressley tomorrow when she saw him? She would make a list of questions tonight, to ensure she did not forget anything. She felt better for thinking about it; she liked lists.

As she passed into the courtyard at the back of the Leaky Cauldron, her mind traitorously disobeyed her once more. He'd actually _smiled_.

Hermione resisted the urge to stamp her foot. She felt absurd—completely and utterly _absurd_! What was wrong with her? She felt almost shaken… it was…

She pushed the door to the pub open with a shove.

Forget about it, she told herself.

And yet, above all, she found she ached to know what it was that McGonagall had said to extract such a reaction from him.

_Forget about it._

_

* * *

_

AN: Thanks for the reviews that have been left : )


	20. Undisclosed Desires

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**20. Undisclosed Desires**

He'd never visited the grave of Lily and James Potter before. In all honesty, the fear of what he might feel at seeing them buried side by side had kept him away. For he'd told himself he'd never stand by Lily's grave with thoughts of only hate, jealousy, and scorn. He considered he owed her a little better than that, and it was only now that he felt he could stand by with, if not a clear conscience, then at least a partial sense that he was deserving. As for Potter, well, he didn't have the same concerns about the rightness of his being at his graveside, but right now, he could not find it within himself to feel _any_ emotion for Potter. And it was a relief, actually.

Severus let his chin sink onto his chest as he sighed down at the headstone. There was no denying she was his biggest regret of all. In his darker moments, he regretted ever meeting her at all… But he did not truly believe it was the truth of his feelings. He could not deny that the impact she had had on his life had been a great one. What would have happened to him if they'd never become friends? Would he have been more or less likely to have taken the path to the Death Eaters?

Yet more answers he would never have.

But no, he knew the importance of her friendship and the mark it had left on him, and he did not mean the all-consuming love… Or maybe he did—it probably didn't matter. What he felt he _could_ determine was that if he'd never met her, he could have so easily become as twisted and depraved as the rest of his fellow Death Eaters. For there had been no one else to show him what it was to care about another person. That the prospect of her death had had to be the catalyst for his returning to the right path was, again, painful irony at best.

He thought he felt the responsibility of her death more than he did Dumbledore's, which, logically, he knew was ridiculous, but there it was. Justice for Lily; for nearly twenty years, that's what he'd been striving for. Nothing more and nothing less. Who was he, really, to snort at Granger's ideals when he had fixated himself on justice for so long?

Maybe he was a hypocrite, after all.

She'd been one of the very few to, for a time, truly care about him, and he'd never forget it. Maybe if things had been different, if _he'd_ been different… But they'd been children, and some things are just not meant to be. He had to accept it now. Better late than never, he supposed. It was all so long ago… He struggled to fathom where the years had gone. Nearly twenty of them had passed, and yet, he'd felt he'd lived only a fraction of them.

He looked away from the gravestone, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

He would accept it, if not ever forget it.

He felt that it would be enough.

* * *

Severus had only come to Hogwarts to briefly check on the brews he had on the go. They were to remain bubbling away for a couple of days until he would add the final components, and he'd hoped to pop in and out of the school without fuss. But no sooner had he lifted the lid off one of the cauldrons, there was Minerva was poking her head around the door.

He swallowed a sigh. Ever since they'd talked, she wouldn't leave him alone.

"_Stay for dinner, Severus."_

"_Stay for a drink, Severus." _

"_Come up to the staff room, Severus."_

"_Come and watch the Quidditch, Severus."_

He never considered giving in to any such pointless requests.

She'd even invited herself along on a trip to Diagon Alley yesterday, much to his initial displeasure. She'd not turned out to be such a troublesome companion, however, and he had a certain fondness for her, of course, but she was still starting to set his teeth on edge. He had a sneaking feeling, though, that she knew exactly what she was doing in her badgering of him, which was all the more maddening.

She stood before him, and when he deigned to look at her, he was put out to see she was brazenly contemplating him.

'Problem?' he asked with a scowl, picking up his stirring rod and jabbing it into the cauldron.

She made a noise of denial, casually folding her arms and leaning against a table. 'Miss Granger's upstairs,' she said eventually, 'talking to Algernon.'

'_Who_?' asked Severus with a contemptuous frown. Who the hell was _Algernon_?

'Used to be an Auror, but teaches Defence now… Miss Granger's talking to him about Dark magic.'

He was slightly surprised to hear this. Why on earth was she consulting an _Auror_? Severus stirred the mixture in front of him with slow movements. 'She's wasting her time.'

'That's what I thought.'

He looked at Minerva and ceased stirring.

'But when I suggested she talk to you about Dark magic she seemed very reluctant, indeed. She rather thought she'd be wasting your time…' Her expression was hopeful of an explanation.

Severus shrugged, turning his attention to the second brew he had simmering away. 'What care I, Minerva, for Miss Granger's whims?'

'But why haven't you told her you are brewing potions for Mr Weasley?'

Severus fought not to groan loudly. 'Because, Minerva, I do not deal well with incessant questioning when I am trying to work.' He fixed her with a pointed look and she pursed her lips. 'The last thing I want or need is to have her pestering me about every little thing. Furthermore, there is nothing to say until the potions are complete, and even then, they may be useless.'

She said nothing—only looked at him as if she didn't quite agree with him.

'It's no secret, what I am doing. Run up and tell her if you feel it necessary,' he challenged, wishing she would just leave.

She watched him a moment longer, but then with a quietly exasperated click of the tongue, she left the room.

Until the time came for him to depart, Severus continually glanced at the door, bracing himself for the possibility that Granger might come bounding through the door at any moment, demanding to know what he was doing.

But she never did, and he was grateful that Minerva had listened to him.

* * *

Over two weeks passed before he had the two brews ready. The modified Invigoration draught contained an element of questionable magic, although not anything he could reasonably be sent to Azkaban for. He had cursed the potion, and he hoped the curse would seek out and combine with the rest of the Dark magic in Weasley's body. The second potion was the strongest antidote he knew for dealing with potions of a Dark nature. He knew for a fact that it would neutralise the effects of the modified Invigoration draught, so Weasley would not be unduly harmed for taking the potions even if they failed in altering his condition.

He ladled the potions into separate phials and strongly warded both the phials and the cauldrons which retained leftover potion. It would not do to have some idiot child come in and imbibe them. He just might end up in Azkaban for that.

All that was left for him was to take the phials to the hospital, and it was rather a sticking point for him.

His immediate instinct was that he should prefer not to have to deliver them himself… _and yet__, _if he was so preoccupied with the idea of doing something good, he should not then feel embarrassed about it, should he? That would be to make it into something more than it was. All he'd done was brew some potions—something he was rather known for, after all. It wasn't as if he'd sacrificed himself for Weasley, for crying out loud.

He'd give them to Weasley's Healer; that would do. He'd already spoken to the Healer on a previous occasion about his intentions. There was no reason why he should have to speak to anyone else.

It was decided.

He threw on his coat, left Hogwarts, and Apparated directly to London. As soon as he entered St. Mungo's, he wished he hadn't. He hated the place. He felt he stood out starkly against the whiteness of the building and the garish green of the robes of the medical professionals. His discomfort was superfluous; hardly anyone paid him attention as he made his way to the ward where Weasley was being treated.

_Get in and get out, Snape; get in and get out._

It was a pointless mantra to recite. He'd only got a few steps from the lift when he came smack bang face-to-face with Arthur Weasley, of all people.

'Severus!' said Arthur, with a good deal of surprise. 'What are you doing here?'

Severus tried to keep his expression as neutral as possible, but it was hard. He'd always found Arthur Weasley's effortless sociability difficult to deal with and now was no exception. As such, he dithered, and it allowed Arthur the opportunity to continue talking.

'Actually, Severus, I never got a chance to thank you for—'

'I'm here about your son, Arthur,' Severus interrupted quickly. 'A potion, ah… I have a couple of potions I believe could aid Ronald's recovery…'

The wide-eyed look on the other man's face perturbed Severus, and so he busied himself with producing the phials.

If anything, Arthur's eyes became only wider as he stared at the two potions. 'Well, I… Good gracious me, this is a surprise! I don't know what to say…! You must come and speak to—'

Severus thrust out the phials. 'I'd rather you just take them, Arthur, and—'

'Nonsense! Wait until Molly hears this!'

Alarmed, Severus felt a hand on his shoulder and then he was being frogmarched into a nearby room. A room, to his eternal dismay, which appeared to be full of his former students. Clearly, he'd been sent to Hell, after all.

'Listen to this everyone!' Arthur beamed to the room at large and turned expectantly to Severus.

For his own part, Severus could have hexed Arthur. Twice. All eyes looked at him with surprise, especially Granger's, whose hand, he noted, rested on Weasley's. He quickly turned his eyes elsewhere, his fingers clutching the phials tighter.

A wave of self-consciousness passed over him as he became aware that he must appear a little unkempt—a little unlike what they were used to seeing him as, with his old Muggle clothes, and his… Well, what did it matter what _they_ thought? There was no need for him to care.

He spoke in flat voice. 'I've brewed a couple of potions I believe may aide Mr Weasley. They are not tested, but I am confident that even if they prove useless with regard to his condition, they will not worsen it. Still, it is up to you whether you wish to try them. The Healer will explain what is involved.'

There was a deafening silence following his words, and Severus looked around, wishing someone would just take the damned phials off him so he could leave.

The silence was eventually broken by a loud sniff. Suddenly, Hermione Granger was stumbling out of her seat and rushing past him, frantically wiping away tears. The door closed behind her with a loud click, leaving everyone else slightly startled by her behaviour.

Severus blinked. 'Forgive me; I was under the impression Miss Granger desired Mr Weasley's return to health.'

The silence fell again once more, and still no one would take the phials off him. Potter was the one to finally take action, and he stood up quickly. Severus felt himself tense; what for, he didn't know, and he hoped no one had noticed. Ginevra Weasley clasped Potter's arm, forestalling his movement.

'Leave her be, Harry. Hermione's been a little wrung out lately,' said the youngest Weasley by way of explanation. 'She'll be fine in a bit.'

Severus decided he could stand no more of this. 'Well then,' said he briskly, finally opting to place the phials on the table across the bottom of Weasley's bed. 'Good luck.'

His hand was on the door when he realised Molly Weasley was rushing after him. 'Thank you, Severus! I'm … What can I say… ?'

_Nothing_.

'It's fine—it may not even work.' With that lacklustre vote of confidence, Severus quickly disappeared through the door, breathing a sigh of relief. The only problem was that his exit was blocked by Granger, who was standing in the corridor like some automaton. She stared into the ether, looking like she was transfixed. Maybe he could sidle past without her even registering it.

But he knew nothing was ever that straightforward for him, so he would take matters into his own hands, for a change

'Get a grip, Granger,' he said, not entirely unkindly as he approached her. When she gave no reaction, he thought he might actually be able to walk past her without further ado, but as he passed, she stirred and cleared her throat.

'Thanks, ah, for not telling me what you were doing—the anticipation would have driven me nuts, I'm sure.'

_And me, by extension_, added Severus wryly to himself.

'And you, I expect,' she said, with a brittle laugh.

Now he felt uncomfortable.

'_Thanks_, though…' she continued quietly, breathing deeply with a slowly spreading wide smile across her mouth. Before he could establish himself taken aback by it, she stepped towards him, lifting her hands. Severus registered the movement with an almost involuntary sense of horror, and he gave a small flinch, stepping backwards.

He pretended not to see her suddenly pink cheeks. 'Good day,' he said tightly, when nothing else would come to mind, and he hurried off towards the lift.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets as he left the hospital, and sucked in the cold air with relief. Maybe he'd stop off for a quick one in the Leaky Cauldron before going home. He felt like he needed it. He ended up having more than one, however, and it was a mistake. The whiskies only hastened a deterioration of his mood, as he'd known they would. But he'd realised something, while standing at the bar in the pub and firmly trying not to think about how charming Granger had looked when she'd smiled at him.

He'd realised he was not a man built for doing good deeds or being altruistic.

Upon that peculiarly sobering realisation, Severus left the pub and Apparated into his living room. He pulled the scarf from his neck and touched his cold fingertips pensively to the scars on his neck—a habit he'd thought he'd managed to lose of late.

No; he wasn't built for doing good deeds. If he were, he wouldn't be so selfishly preoccupied with the effects of such deeds on himself. He knew it in his bones that his potions would work. It was not arrogance that made him think it—he just knew. And yet he did not feel content that he had procured the means for the survival of another person. But he should, shouldn't he? If anything, he felt emptier than he had before.

That was exactly it—he felt so bloody _empty_. All the time.

_"What is there for you?"_

That's what she'd asked him when they'd caught Selwyn. And what the hell _was _there left for him? He knew the answer; it was nothing.

He was Severus Snape and he had _nothing_—no job, no family, no prospects, no life…

It made him he feel so suddenly apprehensive and confused that he spun on his heel and rushed up the stairs to his bedroom, as if the quick movement would dislodge the thoughts from his mind. It didn't.

In the fading daylight that shone through the curtains, he stood in the doorway of his bedroom and grimaced.

But, Merlin, he was so _sick _of feeling like this. He might very well have nothing, but he was damned if he was going to continue to let everyone else know it. Angrily, he flung his coat in the direction of the bed, and then with a sharp tug, he opened the door to his wardrobe and looked at his reflection in the mirror that hung on the inside.

He lifted a hand and ran it over the stubble on the lower half of his face. He should finally try and claw back some self-respect from somewhere, he thought. Taking out his wand, he aimed it at his jaw until it became smooth once more. Then, he grasped the bottom of his jumper and wrenched it up over his head. Letting it drop to the floor, he reached blindly inside the wardrobe and pulled out the first robes he found.

Roughly buttoning up a shirt, he tugged the robes on and surveyed the outcome with shallow breaths. He hadn't worn his robes since coming home from St. Mungo's after the war. Yet another ridiculous aversion he'd developed during his spiral of self-destruction. His hair… Well, it would have to do—there was not much else for it. He'd never been one to enjoy taking in his own appearance, and he forced himself to look now. He thought he probably looked a little better than he had in recent months, but... He pushed the wardrobe door shut with a weary sigh, feeling his fragile determination already beginning to break.

Because the question was, what now?

He sat on the bed and put his chin in hand, contemplating his shoes. Maybe he should have upped sticks and left all those months ago. Was he wrong to have dismissed leaving his small, cramped, stifling house to head for pastures new? Perhaps foreign climes wouldn't have transpired to be as bad as he considered them to be. Nowhere hot, though. Perhaps he'd do a moonlight flit and go far north to somewhere as cold, and as empty, and as barren, as he was himself.

And then he snorted. The ridiculousness of such a melodramatic thought brought the clarity needed to clear the mist in his mind. There would be no fanciful moonlight flit. But there would need to be something, and it wasn't only about establishing a routine, as Minerva had suggested. He needed to do more; he needed change. And now he recognised it, he just needed to work out precisely what that change would constitute.

There was no need to rush into anything, however. He had to sort things out properly, and properly is how he _would_ do them. And while he might have precious little, he certainly had time.

Feeling a little more settled than he had earlier on, he was about to take himself downstairs when the silver light of a Patronus appeared before him. It was Minerva's Patronus, and her voice spoke triumphantly out into the room.

'Severus! You did it! I have just heard that Mr Weasley has opened his eyes!'

Severus ignored whatever remained of her message and closed his eyes. There it was then—done. He clasped his hands together in his lap and, unbidden, the image of how the scene must have unfolded at the hospital formed into his mind. It wasn't hard to picture it.

It was an odd feeling he had with the knowledge that it was he who had brought about what was a joyous occasion for many people. It was not a responsibility he could say he had much experience with and he was unsure how to regard it. In the end, he decided he did not want to dwell on it. It was nothing more to do with him.

He did not want to imagine how wide Miss Granger's smile must be now.

Severus sprang to his feet and headed downstairs. He had other things to focus his mind on and he would not spend his time lost in abstractions. He had indulged in that far too easily in the past and he had to work to change that now

So he ignored any thoughts about the success of his potions—about the final solving of the puzzle he had been presented with many weeks ago.

And most of all, he ignored why his heart should beat with such a stinging pleasure well into the night.

* * *

AN: Nearly there now : )


	21. Calm Like You

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**21. Calm Like You**

It did not happen immediately. It was some hours following the administering of Snape's potions that Ron had finally awoken. Or, at least, his eyes had flickered open, but Hermione was more than happy to class that as waking up after months of nothing. It had taken him several days to become fully conscious for any extended length of time, as the Healers had assured them would be the case. But as those several days had now elapsed, he was sat up in bed, quiet and still rather disorientated. He was content to listen intently to all the news he had missed during his incapacitation.

For some reason, Hermione found it difficult not to break into tears each time she clapped eyes on him. He'd been dumbfounded at the story of Selwyn's capture (as had the others when they'd learned more of the details that, hitherto, she had kept to herself). He regularly asked her to clarify certain facts; the most popular clarification focusing on Snape's role in helping her. Ron, of course, had never learnt that the man had even survived the war, so that in itself had been shock enough.

'_Why_?' was his perpetual refrain when they talked of it. '_Why_ would he agree to help me?'

Hermione rather thought she understood far better the impetus behind Snape's participation than she had at the beginning. But it was not something she wanted, or felt she could, explain to Ron.

'I suppose he agreed simply because I asked,' she'd said instead.

'What will we have to do in return?' Ron replied. 'Scrub cauldrons for all time?'

She'd managed a weak smile in response—nothing more. Every time she heard Snape spoken about she had an urge to go and see him. For one thing, though she expected he would brush it off, she felt she should thank him again. She wasn't the only one with such desires. Molly had been asking her for his address so that she might go and thank him herself, but Hermione had prevaricated about giving it, and had eventually managed to convince Mrs Weasley that he would not be enthused by an entourage of Weasleys turning up on his doorstep. An Owl he would likely appreciate more.

Hermione had not forgotten his reaction to her own attempt at gratitude. She didn't know why she'd been stupid enough to try and hug him, but that was her instinctive way of showing how grateful she was and for a moment, she'd forgotten it was not his style. Or maybe she'd just secretly hoped he'd become more receptive towards her; how sad was that?

In any case, her cheeks still burned with embarrassment every time she recalled the moment. She certainly wouldn't be repeating the incident any time soon.

She felt that she knew he would not want to hear any more thanks off her, or off anyone, and Hermione hoped to find a better reason for her to impose herself upon him in the near future.

But for the time being, she was preoccupied with helping Ron to adjust to the world around him. There was so much for him to take in and assimilate that she wasn't sure he would manage it without driving himself crazy. However, in the main, he seemed to be coping well. Either that, or he just didn't have enough time to take it all in while dealing with the raptures of his family. For there _were_ quieter moments when she caught a more serious expression on her friend's face—troubled, even. She was afraid to ask what it meant. And he looked at her sometimes in a way that was entirely surveying and ponderous. It made her feel sick; sick with confusion and apprehension.

There would come a time once the euphoria had died down when they would have time to be alone, and Hermione found she feared it. At the same time, she hated herself for it. What kind of a person was she? What kind of person lets her feelings for a person change while that person was seriously ill?

A cold-hearted bitch, perhaps?

As she contemplated the reality of her feelings for Ron, she was forced to find credence to a theory she'd not considered before.

Had guilt driven her on her quest for Selwyn, after all?

By going to the lengths she had, had she been trying to compensate for her own conflicting emotions? For all her talk about justice and doing the right thing, had she only been feeling guilt at the reality that her feelings for Ron might have moved on? Whatever there had been between them had barely got off its feet—did that excuse her for letting go, or did it incriminate her further as a complete cow?

Absorbed in her misery, Hermione failed to hear Ginny enter the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. She sat at the table and swiped at her eyes, but luck was on her side; Ginny failed to notice anything was amiss.

What would Ginny think when she found out about it all?

Would all the Weasleys think her fickle and flighty?

Only time would tell.

* * *

Hermione needn't have bothered herself over whether she could pluck up the courage to go and see Snape of her own accord. Fate had other ideas in mind, and a week after Ron had been given his potions, she encountered the man himself in Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley. She could tell that he seemed momentarily startled to see her, especially as she was not there as a fellow customer, but rather as an assistant. She did not fail to note the hesitancy in his posture and she wondered if he was internally kicking himself for running into her.

'I was unaware you worked here, Miss Granger,' he said by way of greeting.

Hermione glanced between the pile of books she held and the shelf in front of her, before plucking up the courage speak. 'I don't do many shifts,' she explained. 'I only come in to cover illness and so on. I did not want to take on a full-time job while Ron was ill, but I needed to make a bit money to get by on.' She'd never mentioned it to him before, because, well, he'd never allowed an opportunity for it.

'I see… And how is Mr Weasley?'

'He's doing quite well; he is not really back to himself, but the Healers say that he will be back on an even keel soon. And, um, by the way, we would all like to say thank you, again, for, you know...' She couldn't help it; it just came spilling out.

He gave a large sigh and placed the book he had in his hand back on the shelf. 'Miss Granger, I did not do it for thanks. I did it because it was within my power to do so and because it was the right thing to do.'

'Of course, I mean, I'm not suggesting your motives were selfish or… anything…' Hermione trailed off, feeling awkward.

He seemed not to be taking much notice of her anyway. He was looking at the array of spines in front of him.

'What are you doing with yourself now?' she asked, fully aware that it was small talk and likely distasteful to him, but she could not deny she was interested. 'Have you any plans?'

But if she thought he might dismiss her with a shrug, or comment crisply that it was none of her business as he had done in the past, then she was wrong. His answer surprised her greatly.

'I am looking to the future, Miss Granger,' he replied, looking at her only once, before inclining his head a fraction and then turning and taking his leave.

She had to stop herself from shouting, 'What does that mean exactly?' after him. He was looking to the future was he? Hermione sighed down at her pile of books, wishing she could dump them and just walk away.

She'd not failed to notice how he'd looked—a lot better than he had in recent times. It appeared that he seemed to be making an effort for himself and she was glad. Yet, it was all the more reason for her to wonder at just what his "looking to the future" meant.

She moved into the next aisle and re-shelved the rest of the books, her mind distracted with the prospect of what her own future might hold.

* * *

'Harry tells me the Ministry are having a hard time of it dealing with the fallout from Selwyn hoodwinking them so cleverly.'

Hermione nodded. 'Since Oakshott's part has come out, there has been rather a furore over it all.'

'Do you think it's true that the Muggles have been recruiting Squibs to work in their government? Are they really spying on _us_?'

Hermione smiled at Ron's obvious admiration of the intrigue the whole situation commanded. 'It's within the realms of possibility.'

Ron nodded his agreement and then silence fell between them. Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat. He was looking significantly brighter than he had ever since waking up. Each time they were alone, she told herself to speak to him plainly about what was bothering her. But she just didn't know where to find the words. The longer she left it, the harder it would be, she knew.

'Hermione,' said Ron suddenly, and in such a grave voice that her thoughts dissolved and she looked at him in surprise. 'Do you feel different now that it's all over?'

She bit her bottom lip. 'Ron, I…'

'I feel different,' he said quietly. 'Sometimes, all I can think of is those days in the forest and all that came after, and I wonder if I will ever be happy again.'

Hermione blinked against the sudden sting in her eyes. 'Oh, Ron, it gets better with time, I promise.'

'I have lain here for months and yet it feels like nothing. Everything is _still_ so vivid…'

He really hadn't been conscious in any way of the past months, she realised. She couldn't imagine what it must be like.

He was looking at the bed sheets. 'I've been thinking a lot and… I, ah, remember that you kissed me…'

Hermione made an involuntary movement and Ron looked at her quickly. His expression was sombre, but she thought she saw a certain level of comprehension in his eyes. 'You know, we'll always be friends, Hermione, no matter what… So, if there is something you want to say, please just say it.'

The corner of his mouth lifted encouragingly. She almost broke down there and then and started wailing about how confused she was. Instead, she took guidance from him and reasoned that if Ron could be earnest about it, then so could she. She took several deep breaths and with as much eloquence as she could find, she began to explain what had happened to _her_ in the last several months.

To his credit, he listened without interrupting, even when she thought she saw a flicker of protest flash over his face.

She wished she could have told him that she would like for them to start again, but Hermione knew her heart would not be in it. She felt like she didn't have it in her to begin a relationship with anyone as she was. She hoped it wasn't selfish of her, but she needed to work out what she wanted from life, before anything else.

In an oddly grave manner, Ron said he understood. He said he'd had doubts of his own.

She struggled to determine if he were merely humouring her, though. And while they'd seemed to reach the same conclusion at the end of their talk, she left the hospital that day with no small amount of regret.

It came to pass that the days following her talk with Ron were uneasy ones for her, as she hated the uncertainty in knowing where she stood with him. The fact that whenever she went to see him he always smiled to see her and never did she see a hurt or resentful expression on his face, did not make her feel easier within herself. Ron had never been afraid to show his displeasure with her in the past, so it either meant he'd truly meant his words to her, or he was at great pains not to show that she had hurt him.

But it was while she was sitting with Ron that she was required to consider the prospect of visiting Spinner's End again. Ron's Healer came into the room brandishing two glass phials, asking if she would mind returning them to him. Hermione took them, wondering deep down about whether she _should_ take them.

Regardless, the next day, there she was, again—at his door.

Her hand hovered in front of the door for several moments before knocking. What the hesitation signified, she did not care to examine. She brought her hand down and rapped shortly on the door and then clasped her hands together to wait for an answer.

When he opened the door, his frowning countenance unconsciously elicited within her a certain element of fondness. He, however, gave a sigh of dismay and Hermione felt a stab of hurt. It dissipated, however, when he spoke.

'If you have come here again to thank me, you can just turn around and go,' said he, in a long-suffering voice.

'Oh,' she replied with a weak laugh. 'Thank you? For what…?'

'Ah, you're learning, I see.' He let her in with an air of impatience, but she took no heed of it. When she got into his living room, though, she was shocked to see that it was rather a mess. Two travelling chests sat at one end and it looked like…

'Are you going somewhere?' she asked, hoping the dismay in her voice was not audible to him.

Merlin, was that what "looking to the future meant?" Was he off to some foreign land in the hopes of 'finding himself?' Not _him,_ as well!

'No… Just sorting some things out,' he answered vaguely, sitting down. 'What can I do for you, then? Got another fugitive you want help in tracking down, have you? Well, before you say anything, the answer is an emphatic _no_.'

'No, nothing like that, so do not worry.' Hermione took out the phials that had contained Ron's potions. 'We thought we should return these. They have your initials engraved upon them; I thought they might be important to you….'

She held them out to him and he took them with a deep sigh, looking at them intently. Hermione perched herself down on the edge of the other armchair in the room, watching him. He rolled the phials in his palm for a moment, before, to Hermione's complete astonishment, flinging them with all his might into the fireplace.

She flinched at the sound of the glass smashing and goggled between him and the fire. He only sat back in his chair and folded his arms casually.

'The Dark Lord gave them to me,' he explained languidly.

Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, more to press away a smile than anything, and looked into the flames of the fire. _Voldemort_ had given them to him?

'I thought this might be a bit of irony we could finally appreciate.'

There was a small smirk around his mouth and Hermione folded her hands into her lap, smiling freely. It certainly was ironic. Briefly, she wondered under what circumstances Voldemort gave out presents, and she was fairly sure she would be better served not to go there. So she let the thought go.

'Ron was allowed home from hospital yesterday; it seems very strange not having to go to St. Mungo's every day.' She wasn't sure he was interested, but she didn't know what else to say now that she'd exhausted her original purpose.

He nodded slowly. 'Good.'

Hermione looked at her hands in her lap. 'He's, um, going to spend some weeks away when he's better—going to stay with his brother in Romania.' Everyone had agreed that a change of scenery might do Ron good. Hermione had to wonder if the Weasley family also encouraged it because he would be away from her, as they had begun to slowly realise that nothing was going on between her and Ron.

'I see… Shall you travel with him?'

She looked up sharply, shaking her head. 'Oh, no, certainly not.'

Hermione smiled a small smile to herself. Ron was looking to get his life back on track, as, apparently, was the man opposite her, but what about her own life? She hadn't had time to stop and to think about where her own life was headed, and now that Ron, her focus for so long, was well again, she was suddenly confronted with her own complete lack of direction.

'Something wrong?'

Hermione tucked her hair behind her ear. 'No, er, I'm just…' She shrugged her shoulders inelegantly. She didn't want to talk to him about the state of her life when he struggled so much with his own. but she considered revealing something else that was bothering her. 'I suppose… There are just times when I can't stop thinking about Abbott and Oakshott.' It was true—they featured in her thoughts frequently. 'Apparently, Oakshott had a young child and…' She trailed off self-consciously, recalling the moment only a few weeks ago when he'd lambasted her attitude toward certain things. Would her sentimentality sicken him now?

He didn't say anything, however, and Hermione decided to continue unhindered. Why should she censure herself for him? She would say how she really felt and if he did not like it, then, what did it matter?

'The worst thing, is that there does not seem to be a lot of sympathy for the man. No one seems to regret his death; they only regret the complete _crime_ that he was a Squib and was working for the Muggle government!' She bit her lip and frowned. 'But what _is_ there for Squibs in this world? Is it any wonder he should have felt more accepted in the Muggle world? And why shouldn't Muggles take action to protect themselves from us? It's not as if we haven't given them enough reason to!'

Aware that her voice was becoming raised, she stopped talking and sighed down at her hands. Still he said nothing and she did not want to look to determine his expression. She didn't know why she was telling him these things—it wasn't him who was writing these stupid articles in the newspapers! Her next words were forced from her by the creeping discomfort she felt at his silence.

'I think it all boils down to the fact that I believed that once Ron was better, everything else would be fine. But it's really not.'

'Indeed; you are right,' he said finally. 'But… it doesn't preclude that it never will be.'

She tensed in surprise that his response to her grumbles had been so equable. 'Why… I think that might have sounded suspiciously like optimism, sir.'

Hermione resisted the urge to kick herself. What was wrong with her? It was only a name! His jaw tightened, but he seemed prepared to let it slide for he made no mention of her slip when next he spoke.

'Optimism might be going a _little_ far.'

She heard an element of jest in his voice that she appreciated.

'But I am learning to be considerate of all the options, not merely the ones that suit my mood best.'

She smiled a little. 'I am happy to hear it.' This would have been the opportunity for her to tell him that she thought she could already see a difference in him—that he looked far well than he had before—but she shied away from it, feeling that he might think her overstepping the mark.

'I believe you once told me to "deal with it," so I am.'

Hermione flushed automatically. 'Oh, I—'

He interrupted her, saving her blushes further over the sometime blunt way she had spoken to him in the past.

'I suppose…' he continued, getting to his feet and, perhaps unnecessarily, stoking the fire. 'I suppose I must be grateful to you, Miss Granger. I am not sure where I would be now had you not accosted me that day in Diagon Alley.'

He paused by the fire, looking into the flames quite pensively while Hermione sought to say something, but found her voice would not co-operate. She felt rather inexplicably touched.

She managed to get out something eventually, though in only a small voice. 'But it is only you who managed the hard part, I am sure.'

With a curt, 'Perhaps,' he acknowledged her recognition of the fact that, really, her part was only small in relation to the strides he had had to make in regard to coming to terms with himself.

But she was warmed by the fact that she could have been of help in any way and it gave her the courage for her next words.

'May I ask what it is you are going to do next?' She'd been so curious about this ever since she'd seen him in Flourish and Blotts. And only now did she feel she could ask him such a thing and not get her head bitten off for it. Despite that, she still held her breath for an answer.

He frowned to himself and did not answer immediately. 'There is much left for me still to decide, but… what I _have_ decided is to leave this house. I am going to sell it, or at least try to sell it, and I shall move elsewhere.'

He sat back down in his chair and his expression challenged her to pass judgement on his decision. Inwardly, Hermione had to confess surprise that he was prepared to take such a big step, and yet….

'I think it is an excellent idea.' She meant it. She could see that it wasn't a case of him running away from his past here, it was now a case of him moving on from it.

'Actually…' he began slowly. 'Perhaps I could prevail upon you to assist me in such matters of Muggle property, because I know there is much work to be done, and—'

Hermione nearly started with excitement. 'Oh, I would love to help!' Too late did she wish she'd sounded a little less enthusiastic.

He nodded. 'Well… good. I need to contact certain establishments about getting about getting the house reconnected, and—'

'Reconnected?' Hermione interrupted before she could stop herself. She looked to the light switch she had noticed before and stood up to press it. Nothing happened.

He looked mildly put out by her.

'I expect you have no gas, either, do you?'

'Or water.'

'_No water_?'

'I never used it so what was the point in me paying for it?'

She sat back down heavily, unable to hide her disapproval. 'Fine; I can easily get all that sorted out as soon as possible.'

Already she felt a bubbling up of anticipation. How she loved a project! Hundreds of questions shot through her mind. Where did he want to move to? What sort of house did he want? Did he need help sprucing up his house for sale? Did he want her to find an estate agent?

She noticed that he was suddenly looking rather wary and she smiled. 'Don't worry, I won't bombard you with questions yet. But certainly I am willing to help you in any way I can.' She was quickly beginning to realise that she found great enjoyment in being of use to him. And fearing he would realise this, she hurriedly added, 'I mean, it's the least I can do, after everything.'

His countenance darkened almost immediately. 'Miss Granger, I am not interested in appeasing your sense of gratitude or obligation. In fact, I want nothing to do with it.'

He flew to his feet, and Hermione instinctively followed, afraid that he was going to suddenly ask her to leave.

'It's not gratitude—I don't feel any obligation,' she said hurriedly. 'I just… I just thought you would prefer it to be that than anything else… At least, from me, anyway…'

They both stood rather stock still at what she had revealed. And Hermione wasn't even sure what it was that she had revealed. But she felt it rather went along the lines that she considered him as a person whom she did things for because she wanted to and because it gave her pleasure to do so, and she supposed that equated to believing him to be a friend.

He did not look at her, but shook his head in minute denial of her assumption. 'No… I do not prefer it.'

Hermione swallowed, trying to clear the sudden dryness in her throat. She almost felt dizzy from the tension that had developed. She glanced around the room and frantically thought of something to say.

'Um, you know, they say it helps to have a neutral colour on the walls when selling a house. Your walls, however…'

'Are covered in books, I know. I'm two steps ahead of you, though; I've already begun shrinking them down.' He nodded his head in the direction of the chests she had seen earlier on.

So they were full of books… She resolved there and then to have had her nosey head in those chests before the week was out.

And over the next few weeks, whenever she was not visiting Ron at the Burrow, or working a shift in Flourish and Blotts, she went to Spinner's End to make good on her declaration to help prepare the house to go on the market. Snape did not let her have free reign, of course. In fact, she never went upstairs—he would sort that out, he said, and Hermione did not dare disagree. He did allow her to work on the living room and kitchen, however, and she enjoyed very much getting to test out the many decorative charms she had researched. She couldn't go too overboard with the charming, unfortunately, as she knew it would most certainly only be Muggles who would consider buying the house.

They packed away anything that could be construed as odd to Muggles, and admittedly, there seemed to be very little left once that was done, but the house looked remarkably different once they'd finished. Hermione wasn't sure Snape liked it. He seemed to wince every time he entered his living room, which was now significantly brighter than it had possibly ever been. Still, he saw the necessity of it, and she felt he really did appreciate her assistance. The closest he came to admitting such was when he commented that he'd expected it to take far longer than it had.

Despite her undeniable triumph at what they'd managed together, Hermione was beginning to see that she was rather good at helping along everyone else's life at the expense of her own. Always in the back of her mind, never mind the constant poking from her parents, was the fact that she should start thinking about finding a proper occupation for herself.

Ron left for Romania and Hermione was beginning to think that they really had parted on good terms. She took great relief from it, but remaining in the back of her mind was the prospect that she was deluded.

In the main, things were slowly beginning to right themselves once more and that was more than acceptable to her. Above all, she took inspiration from the change she had witnessed in Snape since that first meeting they'd had some months ago, and she was determined that the first big difference he was making in his life would not prove a disaster. She would try her hardest to get his house sold and she wanted to be the one to find a new one for him.

It emerged that she wasn't any good at finding houses, though. Personally, she rather blamed it on the indifferent brief he had given her. He wasn't, however, so indifferent when presented with her finds. He found fault with each of the selections she presented to him.

"_It's too big.'_

"_I am not going to live in a house that looks like it should be pictured on a tin of clotted-cream biscuits."_

"_What on earth does one do with a conservatory?"_

"_Do I look like I need a double-garage?"_

At the end of her tether, she had purposefully thrown down a brochure on tents and caravans and told him to find his own bloody house.

Unfortunately, to her chagrin, he managed just that.

And she could not have known what it would set in motion for the both of them.

* * *

AN: Thanks so much for the reviews. There's just one more chapter to come and it's more or less finished, so it shouldn't be too long in coming, hopefully. Thanks for reading.


	22. The Match and the Spark: Part 1

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**22. The Match and the Spark: Part 1**

Ron spent three months in Romania with his brother Charlie.

For someone who had had more than his fair share of exhilarating experiences in his lifetime, Ron rather thought this one was one of his top favourites. It was such a relief not to have the oppressive weight of Voldemort on his shoulders, and to be able to just enjoy the simple things was a welcome change. It was something he did not mind adapting to one bit.

One thing he struggled to adapt to was the death of Fred, and spending so much time with Charlie had only reinforced the fact that he had lost one of his brothers. It had been hard to wake up and reconcile the fact that while everyone else had been coming to terms with the tragedy for some time, his own grief was still painfully fresh. As with a lot of things, he had felt several hundred steps behind his friends and family, and indeed, the Wizarding world as a whole. There was a resulting pang of resentment he sometimes felt, but it was only ever fleeting. No one had forgotten him or given up on him, and he would always be grateful for that.

But coming away and having some time to himself had helped him rediscover his perspective. He had been able to move on at his own pace without pressure from any other quarter, and he fully intended to return home ready to start again. He had it all worked out. Harry and Ginny wanted him to live at Grimmauld Place for the time being. He would apply immediately for a place on the Auror training programme, and, in effect, he would live his life.

He would see his family and he would see his friends, and he would get thoroughly sucked into life's boring routine. He couldn't wait.

When the longing for home began to supersede his enjoyment of being abroad, Ron took heed of the sign. He returned home on a sunny afternoon in March to find the Burrow full of people there to greet him. He hugged Hermione the hardest. Of everyone, he had hoped it would not be she who thought him selfish for taking himself off for a few months, but he felt they were on the same page—for possibly the first time during their whole friendship.

Secretly, one of the reasons he had decided to go away was to try and reason his feelings for her. He'd known from the moment they'd first spoken following his awakening that her feelings for him had changed. It was something he hadn't been able to help reading in her eyes. It was something, she'd said, that she had not had any control over. It was difficult, but Ron had come to understand it.

In the beginning, he had wondered if she might have met someone else, but she had indignantly denied such a thing. He believed her.

In many respects, he was glad. There were times, of course, when he wondered how he could be so self-denying, but it _was_ true—he was glad she no longer felt for him in that way. What she had done for him in pursuing Selwyn had only confirmed to him what a true friend he had in her. And he'd realised he was too much of a coward to risk that. He would never have been able to forgive himself if it had all gone wrong. And knowing his luck, it would have.

He'd learnt enough in recent times to know when to be grateful for what he had. So when he saw her now, he was only happy that she was part of his life. Anything else he could deal with… Or learn to live with.

He sat down with his friends and happily relayed to them what he had seen and done on his travels, and when he had exhausted all of his anecdotes, it was his turn to listen to everyone else. During a quiet five minutes, when the conversation had lulled pleasantly, he asked what he'd initially considered a casual question.

'You said in your last letter that Snape's house situation was sorted. How's he getting on?' The question was directed at Hermione. He felt it was only right for him to take an interest in his former teacher's existence, considering how much he owed him his own existence.

To his surprise, however, both Harry and Ginny shared a wary look before casually edging away to another part of the room. Hermione was looking into her wine glass with a pained determination he did not find particularly comforting.

'What did I say?' Ron asked in confusion.

'He's, um, getting on well in his new house, and, ah…' The tail end of Hermione's sentence was lost in her glass as she hurriedly gulped from it, but Ron, to his horror, managed to decipher it nevertheless.

'Did you just say you are _living_ with him?'

He watched, astonished, as her cheeks turned pink.

'In a manner of speaking, yes,' she said. 'But—'

'"In a manner of speaking?" You either are or you aren't!'

'I am, then,' she answered haltingly.

Ron spluttered for a moment. 'What—is there something going on between the two of you?' he asked in an almost high-pitched voice. Had she lied to him all along? She'd passed him over for _Severus Snape_?

'_No!_ No, it's not anything like that.' Hermione put down her glass and turned to him, speaking in her most business-like of tones. 'Listen, the house he wanted had this perfect outbuilding for him in which to brew potions, you see, because that's what he decided he wanted to do with his life. But the house itself was a little too expensive… so in the end, we decided I should rent the whole of the upstairs off him.'

Ron only gaped at her. 'Are you seriously telling me this, Hermione? You are actively renting rooms from him? Of your own accord? _Merlin_! _Why_?'

She stood up and jerked her head to follow him somewhere quiet. 'Ron, it's all perfectly above board,' she explained when they'd closed the door on the noise. 'He has the downstairs and I have the upstairs. It's practically two separate houses—I've charmed my own front door and everything!'

'Hermione, I know he's done a lot for us in the past, but it's one thing to be grateful and another entirely thing to bloody _move in with him_!'

She didn't speak for nearly a whole minute. He wondered if she had already had this conversation at least once before—there was a look of mild impatience on her face. 'Look, I _know_ it is unorthodox, and he was very much against the idea in the beginning. But it was practical at the time. There was a buyer for his house and we'd not found anything else suitable for him. He had no regular income coming in and buying the house would have nearly cleaned him out. So, I had just started my job at the Ministry—the answer was simple!'

'Yes, but he _has_ a regular income now, doesn't he?' Ron had always felt her abnormal sense of pragmatism would get her into trouble one day.

'That's not really relevant anymore.' She sighed. 'Maybe it never was about practicality for me…' She rolled her eyes at Ron's suddenly staggered expression. 'I just mean it's more about… companionship… It's hard to explain. Life has not been easy for him; I _wanted_ this to be. He's not asked me to leave… and I'm happy to stay.'

Ron only shrugged his shoulders helplessly. What the hell was there for him to say? Why was he even surprised by anything anymore?

'I'm not sure I'll ever understand you, Hermione.' He didn't think either of them imagined the echo of pathos in his voice.

So that proved to be one other thing he had to adapt to—that his best friend had struck up an unlikely friendship with one of their former thorns in their side.

But as it turned out, it wasn't especially hard to get used to it. She never talked about Snape to him, or to anyone else as far as he could see. And Ron never saw the man for months at a time. It wasn't difficult to forget the exact detail of Hermione's, frankly absurd, living arrangements, and for Ron, that was perfectly welcome. Furthermore, whenever he went to see Hermione at the house in Dorset she… shared, Snape was never there. Or if he was, he never showed himself. But then, it was not entirely unexpected—her part of the house really was separate from his. He felt a little easier at seeing the proof of it. He'd imagined scenes of… well, he didn't like to contemplate it.

He did hear from Ginny that Hermione always invited Snape to come for dinner at Grimmauld Place, or to come whenever they were having a party—for a birthday, anniversary, engagement, and so on. But he always refused it. Ron was never quite sure what Hermione made of that, and to be honest, he didn't really want to ask.

Regardless, he found it difficult to imagine how such an arrangement could ever continue to last, and there came a point during late summer when he thought it might have finally come to an end.

Hermione came storming into the Grimmauld Place one evening while he was eating dinner with Ginny and Harry.

'Something wrong?' Harry asked when she started making tea with a significant amount of unnecessary noise.

'Oh, nothing,' she replied with false cheer.

But then she paused and turned around to smile ruefully at their identical expressions of scepticism. 'Fair enough.' She sighed. 'He just does my head in, sometimes, that's all.'

Ron exchanged a look of raised eyebrows with Harry. There was no need to ask who '_he_' was. Ron wanted to know what had happened, but could tell she was not in the mood for talking. He thought about asking her, yet again, why she stayed there. He could not understand it, Why did she bother if he 'did her head in?'

By this time, she had been working full-time for the Ministry for nearly a good eight months—she could afford somewhere of own. Snape could definitely afford to keep himself without her monetary help, having, as Ron had heard, taken up a permanent role in the publishing of the _Practical Potioneer_.

But Ron never really discovered what it was that had upset her that day. She stayed at Grimmauld place that night, but she went home the next day and it was never mentioned again. Everything just carried on as it had before and Ron let it slip from his mind.

That was until Hermione's birthday rolled around, anyway. The big news then, of course, was that Hermione had somehow managed to persuade Snape to attend the celebration being organised for her.

And out of nowhere had sprung the prospect that Ron was now going to have to spend an evening with the man who was now, what, Hermione's friend? He had no idea what to make of it, in all honesty.

But there he was on the night. Snape arrived at the restaurant in Diagon Alley with Hermione. Bar the brief meeting they'd had at the trial of Selwyn a couple of months back, it was the first time Ron had seen the man since that horrible moment in the Shrieking Shack.

Maybe it was the vivid recollection of that particular scene that impelled Ron to set his jaw and greet him first by holding out his hand. 'Snape,' he said cordially. His civility towards the man held no reluctance, but there was certainly caution.

Snape shook his hand and nodded shortly. 'Weasley.'

If Ron had hoped to get a better idea of what was going on between his friend and Severus Snape through viewing them together, then he was left unsatisfied. Snape barely said a word all night and Hermione did not seem at pains to actively draw him into the conversations going on around the table. He meant no disrespect to Snape, but why did Hermione want him to be there if he wasn't going to say or do anything?

Ron couldn't help but think it was all so bloody odd to him, and he couldn't help but feel uncomfortably suspicious about certain things. For one thing, it did not go unnoticed (though it did go unsaid) that Hermione never got involved with anyone. He had been out with a few girls since returning from Romania, but she just did not seem interested in meeting anyone. He looked across the table at her as she talked to Harry and he thought her a wonderful girl—it could not be that no one would fancy her enough. Furthermore, for his own part, he sometimes found it difficult to be around Harry and Ginny because of their nauseating happiness—did she feel the same? If she did, she hid it well.

In any case, there came a point when he felt he was finally justified to have been suspicious. He remembered that it was the day after Halloween, because he would not forget the incident in a hurry. That day, he accidentally overheard a conversation in Grimmauld Place between his sister and Hermione that he knew had not been meant for his ears.

And what he heard did not especially surprise him, but he felt the effects somewhere deep within his chest.

It wasn't until that moment that he truly recognised the significance of what he had missed and subsequently lost during those months he had been struck down.

The only consolation he had was to know that it was done. Events had overtaken him long ago and it was beyond his control to catch up and alter them now.

It was done and he'd just have to get on with it.

* * *

It had taken her an age to convince Snape, or Severus as she had finally taught herself to call him, that her idea with regard to the house was not completely bonkers.

But she'd seen from the way he had viewed her own selections for him that the one in Dorset he had discovered had been the only one to truly spark a gleam of interest in his eyes. Any other possibilities, if he hadn't dismissed entirely out of hand, he had merely given an indifferent eye commenting that he "supposed it might do".

He might have been able to be insufferably laid-back about such things, but Hermione was certainly not going to allow him to take such a big step as buying a new house on the basis that it would 'do'.

So when he observed that he would not be able to afford the house he liked owing to his unemployed situation, it had only seemed logical for her to come up with a solution. And that's what she had done.

She was not stupid. She had not been immune to the implications of what she was proposing—she perfectly understood that it was not a step to be taken lightly. But, oh, how he had _baulked_ at it.

'Realistically,' she had argued, 'how many of the rooms do you need?' It was not a huge house by any stretch of the imagination, but it was certainly bigger than the house in Spinner's End. 'It could easily be split temporarily into two flats. The rent you would receive will keep you going until you find a job.'

'It's nonsense!' he had dismissed roughly. 'Besides, I don't want some stranger living in my house!'

Hermione had blushed that her intentions had not been clearer to him. 'I, ah, thought that _I _might rent it off you.'

It had been a novel moment in their, at that point, indefinite friendship. She'd never rendered him so that he might have been knocked down by a feather before.

'Are you _insane_?'

'No,' she'd replied defensively. 'I think it is a perfectly practical solution. We would not be under each other's feet, I assure you, if that's what you are worried about. There's no reason why we should not see each other for weeks on end.'

She'd imagined that his instinctive disagreement stemmed from the fact that the prospect of her company for any extended length of time would be too much for him to bear. But, in her mind, there was no reason why that should be an issue. There would be boundaries—she meant to go about everything properly.

'_Why_ on earth would you want to do such a thing?' he'd asked, dare she say it, a little aghast.

It was the question she had most hoped to avoid. How could she explain that she had an indeterminate desire to be of any help to him? How could she say that she wished to… Well, it was almost like she wanted to look after him; it was so silly of her. And even selfish, perhaps, but there it was. She liked to be around him.

But he'd seemed to sense a certain direction in her thoughts. 'Let me guess, you're afraid I'll fall back into my despairing ways, are you? Think I need a nurse-maid to keep an eye on me, do you? Well, let me tell you; _I_ think not.'

And before she could deny that was her reasoning, he'd stormed off without another word.

She'd not allowed herself to be unduly disheartened; what was she if not quietly determined?

In any case, time had only proven the arrangement to be a success—not that he would ever admit such a thing. And yes, she had had a bit of a precarious time explaining it to her friends and family, but they had not concrete cause for objection and they all knew it.

He had needed a change and Hermione had come to see that she needed one as well. Harry and Ginny were planning on getting married; Ron was sorting his own life out. She wanted to push herself—she wanted to discover more about her own capabilities. She'd gone out and found herself a job; she'd gone and found herself somewhere different in which to live. To her, it just seemed like a good thing to do.

She had never lived alone before and while the prospect was a daunting one, she'd found it far easier to bear knowing that she wasn't _quite_ alone. It wasn't as if she could have ever envisaged the situation she had placed herself in, but she felt quietly content with what she had created for herself in her life, and it was a time for her finally to be calm after several hectic years.

There could be no denying that it hadn't been awkward at first, certainly. For weeks, she'd been afraid to approach his front door on account of how she would be received. But then he'd started working in the garden, setting up the space in which he would brew. Hermione had seen the opportunity for what it was—a chance to talk on neutral ground. She discovered that he did not mind if she sought him out on occasion. Especially, it seemed, after he found that it _was_ within her abilities to sit quietly for a protracted length of time. Interaction was further helped along when she found out that he was useless at cooking, for she always liked to play the teacher—she couldn't help it. He liked it far less, though, she thought.

There was no precluding other extraneous times when she might spend time with him, either. It always made her brighten to think that he didn't, in fact, despise her presence. Or at least, if he did, he was at pains to hide it.

She did not forget that it was only over meant to be a short-term arrangement. But while initially she had been fully prepared to leave when he found regular employment, he never requested she go and she never offered to leave. She never offered, because she was happy with the way things were. His company, when he allowed it, was more than pleasing to her. She had become used to the rooms in which she had made herself a home. Why did they need to change anything?

Unfortunately, coming to establish a firmer friendship led to them (mostly her, it had to be said) taking greater liberties than would have been dared otherwise. And what had been a hitherto harmonious situation was then subject to more fractious moments. The biggest of all, in hindsight, had been gradually building for some time. The first time she asked him to join her and her friends for dinner at Grimmauld Place, she would admit, had only been out of politeness. Not that she wouldn't have liked him to come, she just knew he would not want to.

The next time, however, it was with a mixture of courtesy, humour, and admittedly, a small amount of hope, that she had posed her invitation. Even though she'd known he would decline, as time went on she always made it a point to inform him of special events—birthday parties; Harry and Ginny's engagement party; Mr and Mrs Weasley's wedding anniversary, amongst others, in the hope he might one day agree. The problem was, the more she asked, the bigger the small amount of hope she'd started with became.

Still, each time he unfailingly responded with a long-suffering sigh and a short "No," she could not have known that her invitations were grating upon him in a way that was not visible to her. She soon found out, however, when she made the mistake of _automatically assuming _he would be attending the ceremony the Ministry had organised to celebrate the fall of Voldemort.

'I'm not going,' he'd stated flatly at her offhand remark that they could travel there together.

'Why on earth not?' He'd been invited, and there would be many people there who he knew.

'I am just not going, all right?'

She'd told him that she did not understand, and he had only looked at her angrily in a way she had not seen since they'd tramped about Arran together.

'I will not stand there and _celebrate_ what I did in the war,' he spat at her. 'Now do you understand?'

'But—'

'I will not do it!' he had almost shouted. 'You may be able to stand there with your clear conscience and toast those who died, but I cannot! I will remember them in my own way, and I wish to Merlin you would just leave me alone and stop trying to turn me into one of your little friends! I am telling you now, it is not going to work. It is not for people like me to applauded; I played my part in shadow and in doubt, and that is how it should remain. _Now, leave me be.__'_

His last demand had been so fierce that Hermione did not consider anything else but capitulating. With indignation, disappointment, and not least a great sense of disquiet, she retreated to Grimmauld Place for the night. She had spent most of the night distinctly unsettled. As a general rule, he always seemed more at ease with himself than he had at the beginning of their acquaintance, but there were times when she wondered at just what was going on beneath the surface.

And for the first time, she seriously considered what it was she had got herself embroiled in.

Because, by then, she was beginning to see the wider implications of what she had done in placing herself within close proximity to him. Anyone might say that she should have seen them coming, but it was something in theory so unlikely that it just never occurred to her as being a possibility.

It was something that forced itself upon her more pressingly one day during an otherwise mundane moment. He'd been scrubbing several of his cauldrons, and she'd commented derogatorily on the state Harry had been left in following his stag night.

'I let him believe for an hour that the tentacles couldn't be removed by magic.'

'Nice,' he'd replied, smiling a small smile to himself. 'Make it five hours next time, though, eh?'

It wasn't often she could make him smile, but she always considered it a triumph when she did. It occurred to her that she might always want to make him smile—that she couldn't see herself doing anything less. It was not a realisation that sat well with her, for many reasons. For a time, she put such imaginations down to herself being a bit silly—fanciful, even. Forgetting, of course, that fanciful was not really in her nature.

A turning point came when she'd brought home some dinner for them both one evening, and had found him exceptionally grim and unresponsive. It was only when she had tipped the uneaten majority of his dinner in the bin that she remembered why he might be in such a dark mood.

It was Halloween and Hermione could have kicked herself for forgetting it. By the time she'd recognised the significance, he'd wandered off somewhere. The kitchen, and sometimes the living room, were only ever the part of his domain that she felt welcome in, and even in her concerned state she still did not want to intrude elsewhere. But she thought she could try her luck outside and was proved justified when she'd found him blasting away some weeds at the bottom of the garden.

'Do you, um, do you want to talk about her?'

'_No_,' he'd said, as if the answer should have been obvious, and Hermione had known that it was.

'And before you dismiss me for being absurd,' he'd added, in a quick voice, 'I am allowed to feel guilty on _this_ day. I know I didn't cast the curse, but I put her in the frame and—'

'It's all right,' she'd interrupted quietly. 'I wasn't going to say anything; I understand.'

Feeling entirely useless, she'd decided to let him be, knowing her presence was not needed or probably wanted.

But the next day, she found herself rushing to Grimmauld Place and confessing all to Ginny in a moment of complete ill feeling. Hermione could see that Ginny was not surprised to hear that she thought might have deeper feelings for the man she shared a house with.

'Why would he allow you in his life he didn't at least like you?' Ginny questioned, trying to prove that her prospects were not quite so bleak.

'He values my companionship, I know that much. And I... I _love_ that we have become friends… But I don't think he _needs_ anything more than that…'

'Well then, what if that companionship is taken away?' Ginny challenged. 'Tell him you've met someone—tell him you're thinking of moving out…'

Hermione shook her head so vehemently that Ginny trailed off. 'I can't play those sort of games with him, Ginny… It just wouldn't be right.'

And she was stuck, she realised; stuck in a design of her own unconscious making.

She allowed herself some tears that night, and some were selfish ones as she truly comprehended that he would probably never be able to give of himself anymore than he already had. So where did that leave her? It left her struggling to decide just what was important to her.

Did she actually _need_ anything more than she already had?

Or could she be grateful and feel that it was enough?


	23. The Match and the Spark: Part 2

**The Match and the Spark**

_All characters belong to J. K. Rowling._

**23. The Match and the Spark: Part 2**

There was only one person Severus could ever have had the courage to consider going to about a matter of personal import. And though Minerva had never been an agony aunt for him in the past (no one had), she was the only one he could reasonably turn to for advice. So he'd gathered his dignity about him like a cloak and presented himself for afternoon tea with the headmistress of Hogwarts.

Once the pleasantries had been gone through, Severus forced himself to address the issue foremost in his mind.

'I have hit a stumbling block with regard to selling my house, Minerva. Believe it or not, but someone actually wants to buy it and I would be foolish not to accept the offer I have received for it. But I have not yet secured anywhere suitable for myself.'

'Well, you're always welcome to come and stay here in the meantime, Severus,' Minerva had replied with a smile.

'Thank you… But you see, there _is_ a house I have taken an interest in for its suitability for brewing potions, and its seclusion. Alas, it is not somewhere I can readily afford while unemployed. In remedying that problem, Miss Granger has proposed that I rent out the upper floor _to her _for the time being.'

A _favour_, Miss Granger called it.

"_It's what people do to help others," _she'd pointed out testily when she'd had her fill of his scorn of the idea.

Minerva had looked momentarily taken aback and appeared to think hard before speaking. 'Well, I think it a very generous proposition, Severus. I know you value your privacy, but I'm sure you would both work it out so that you are both undisturbed. It'll only be short-term, anyway, as I'm sure you won't be long in finding an occupation, Severus.'

A part of him had hoped she would dismiss such an idea as ridiculous. Him and Granger living together? It just didn't compute. He pointed out that her friends, amongst others, would likely think it rather questionable that Hermione Granger should choose to place herself in his company, and he didn't want people throwing suspicions and doubts over his character anymore.

Minerva only told him that _he_ was being ridiculous. No one was going to think he'd cursed her.

The idea still hadn't seemed right to him. But Granger, or Hermione as she insisted he call her, kept going on and on about it. She showed him how they could block off the stairs and charm them to be hidden.

'Just think of it as if you will live in a bungalow,' she'd stated with a twinkle.

And it was at times like that, with her unending ability to inject lightness into a situation, that he wondered just how serious she was about her proposal. But he'd spent enough time around her to know she completed most things she did with seriousness at the root of them.

Secretly, he'd thought about what it might be like to have someone nearby—someone who evidently wanted to be there, and would it be a good thing? He would not have to see her every day—they would not be living in each others pockets. He didn't have to hear her walking about upstairs because he could charm the ceiling into silence. _It would only be short-term_, anyway, was what he liked to remind himself of most.

Against his better judgement, and with great trepidation, he'd agreed to it. They spent a good deal of time temporarily modifying the inside of the house so as to make two separate living spaces, and when he saw the result, he had felt much better for it.

It had not been easy for him to adjust to it, though. He could never quite forget that she was _there, _and for a while he thought it might prove too much for him to bear—that it was hindering his ability to relax and be himself. And yet, he could not be wholly blind to the benefits she had presented him with. The whole thing was an unexpected development, certainly, but it had not dampened the relief he had felt within himself that he had managed to make such a huge change in his life. He did not quite feel a different person, as the cliché went, but he had felt it was certainly a different direction for him.

Her help had allowed him the luxury of not having to rush into the first job that would take him. Instead, he had spent time setting up the outbuilding at the bottom of the garden into a place where he could work—where he could brew potions and write about them. It was what he was good at—it was what he wanted to do.

He had started off writing articles for journals on the work he was doing, but with the spread of the news that he had cured Ronald Weasley, he was sometimes Owled with commissions for certain potions. Hermione commented that a business had seemed to spring up around him without him noticing.

He rather thought he was not that unobservant, but he had let the remark slide. He realised now, in hindsight, that she might have been aiming that comment to remind him that he would no longer require the money he received from her.

And during that time he was forced to contemplate the legitimacy of their caveat that her staying there was 'short-term'. Did he want her to go? Did he need her to go? The plain truth was that he had become used to her presence. She did not unduly interfere or intrude in his life, but their paths might cross a couple of times a week, by accident or by design, and it did not bother him. If anything, they were more often welcome to him than not.

In the moments when his thoughts took a more pensive turn, he found himself wishing he had had a friend like her when he had been growing up. Immediately then, he would feel as though he were betraying Lily's memory, and he told himself that he would like as not have alienated _whomever_ had chosen to be his friend during that part of his life. Regardless, he could admit to himself now that he found peace of mind knowing there was someone nearby who would actually have a care about what he did with himself. And it was all the better because she expected very little in return.

He could stand her cat wandering in and rubbing its squashed face against every piece of furniture he owned. He could put up with her borrowing his books. He could even put up with her often repeated suggestions that they sit and watch television of an evening. A more mind-numbing activity Severus had never imagined before, until he'd tried it, of course.

Reality was, he did not especially need her to go, and being honest with himself, he didn't especially want her to go. So they continued until 'short-term' could no longer be held applicable to their situation. And still they never mentioned it to each other.

But Severus did think about finally bringing it up after he had lost his temper with her over the Ministry celebration. He knew that when she had asked him to join her for certain occasions she was being entirely earnest, but that was the trouble. How could she be so deluded to think he could ever sit down with her and her friends? How could she think he would ever fit in? He was just far too different from them all for it to be borne.

And he had considered that night that she should not continue living there, because how could he knowingly allow himself to be at her mercy? She held all the cards. She could decide to move on at any time. He'd not failed to notice that she seemed not to get involved in any other relationship beyond those she had with her friends, her family, and… him. But that could change in an instant and where would he be left?

Despite the Silencing charm on the ceiling, he'd known she'd not come back that night and he wasn't sure who he was more angry with; her or himself. Any intention he had of suggesting she leave, however, died in his throat when she did come back. She stormed into the kitchen, _his_ kitchen, and stood fiercely in front of him.

'I know you hate it when I tell you what to do,' she said firmly, 'but I am going to do it anyway. You've always seemed to have this opinion that I am a better person than you, but I want you to _forget_ all this talk about clear consciences, all right? My conscience may not have the weight yours does, but it is certainly not clear! I have regrets of my own and they may not compare to yours, but they are _mine_. I will ask you not to place me on some sort of pedestal because I know that one day I shall only fall off!'

With that, she stalked out through the back door and he heard her Apparate up to her own rooms while he stood there somewhat stunned.

Of course he put her on a pedestal, but he wasn't misguided. He did not consider her perfect; he knew people made mistakes, whoever they were. But he couldn't help it if one of the things he liked about her was her character—what he perceived as having a strong sense of honour and nobility. He had reconciled those aspects of her which had so embittered him before as to appealing to him now. He just couldn't help it if he admired her for being a person he should have liked to have been, under better circumstances.

But that moment marked a time when he started to see how weak and influenced he was becoming with regard to her. It was brutally obvious one day when she came into his workroom while he was brewing and made a request of him. She did not normally intrude into his workspace, but her expression was rather serious so he drew no attention to it.

She stopped by where he was sitting on a stool and spoke hesitantly. 'I know I have annoyed you in the past by prevailing upon you to join me at certain events… but I am going to continue to risk your wrath in order to show you my sincerity. It is my birthday next week and your presence would only be most welcome.'

He only stared into his cauldron while she briefly touched his arm and then disappeared.

He was weak, because he couldn't find it within himself to say no, even as he imagined Potter and all the Weasleys being there. But when had anyone ever wanted him to be anywhere? In a moment of clarity, he saw that if she was to be his friend, and he hers, then he would have to swallow his pride somewhere. Lily had wanted him to ignore his Slytherin housemates and he had longed for her to shower scorn over her own. But look where it had eventually driven them both? Further and further apart.

So he told himself he could manage just one night. When he informed her he would come he could never have imagined that such a thing would have given her so much joy. He'd felt inordinately embarrassed by it, and he'd hoped with all his heart that on the night she would not draw her friends' attention to the incident of his presence.

He needn't have worried. She maintained all night the appearance that his being there was the most commonplace thing in the world. He, of course, had felt no such thing, but he had discovered he was able to endure listening to her friends without going insane. He had even been able to withstand Weasley's searching looks. He could not have missed the way the younger man looked between them, or the wistful tilt of his expression when he looked at Hermione. Severus didn't make any mention of his observations, but only because he felt Weasley had managed to grow up at some point since he had last been in his classroom.

The fact remained, however, that the best part of the evening for Severus was when they all left, not least because Hermione linked her arm in his as they ventured home and thanked him unreservedly for coming, even though, apparently, she had been able to tell he had hated it.

He had not felt any haste to deny her words, even if they were slightly exaggerated from the truth of the matter.

It pleased him to please her—he could not deny it to himself.

But it wasn't long before he began dreading the prospect of her departure, again. A year had come and gone since the capture of Selwyn. She could not continue living there forever.

He came home early one day from meeting with a potential client and he saw her sitting in the garden through the window; she was crying. His first instinct was to go out and demand to know what was wrong, but his brain sought to quash it. She had been acting strangely for several days—maybe longer, and it occurred to him that this was probably finally it. He'd not missed her disappointment when he'd refused to speak to her on Halloween. Perhaps she was finally fed up of his often short and brusque manner with her.

Oh, what a wonderful moment it was to stand there and have the sudden dawning comprehension that his whole life he had got through by merely exchanging one dependency for another! Lily had been his first and had got him through childhood. Then, when he'd had to give her up, he'd set about making the biggest mistakes of his life. His next dependency was justice—living only to see Lily's son survive the path he had been set upon. And when that was done, what had happened to him? He'd fallen to pieces—only to pick himself back up again through forming a new reliance on Hermione Granger.

He struggled to resist the implications of such a conclusion, telling himself firmly that he had begun to put himself back together of his _own accord_—not through any need to appease anyone else. He could be an independent being—he _could_ function on his own. He was capable of living his life for no one but himself.

So Severus left her to whatever misery she was contemplating. She could go and he would be fine. He did not need the presence of another to make him feel adequate. He had finally learnt to manage it on his own.

He remained on edge, however. Several days passed at a time when he did not see her, and when he did she seemed distracted and distant. He could only wonder what had happened to him in recent months that he should notice such a thing about her, and that it should irk him. He felt sure she would eventually come out with what he dreaded to hear, despite his inner protests to the contrary. Several times he considered that he should just get in there first and demand to have his house back. But he didn't.

And nothing ever came from her, either. Time went on and her behaviour became slowly more like he had become used to. She was asking him to watch telly with her again, and laughing just as easily at the pained look he always affected at any such time. He did not like to think why he found it suddenly easy to ignore his misgivings again.

Christmas rolled around, and while he had never taken any particular joy from the occasion, she embraced it in all its festive glory. How many times he had removed the tree she had placed in the corner of his living room, he did not like to think.

The day before Christmas Eve, she stood in his kitchen buttoning up her coat while he tried to read the paper and drink his morning tea. She'd come in, ostensibly, to tell him she was going to Diagon Alley, but…

'Now, I will be dining with my parents on Christmas Day. You are still welcome to join us, you know.'

And there it was. 'Thank you, no,' he replied, admittedly for the umpteenth time.

'Very well,' she said with equanimity. 'I shall be going to Grimmauld Place on Boxing Day, so we shall have to have our Christmas on Christmas Eve, then. Now—'

'Our _what_, sorry?' Severus interrupted blankly.

She wrapped her scarf around her neck, speaking as if he were the village idiot. 'Well, we can't not do anything when we live in the same bloody house, can we? And seeing as you are so set on spending Christmas Day on your own…' She sighed, and he thought he detected melancholy in it. 'It is all right, isn't it, if I join you tomorrow?'

Severus found he could only nod.

She smiled brightly. 'Excellent! Now, anything you would like me to pick up for you in Diagon Alley?'

Severus couldn't hear her. All of a sudden, he felt like he was experiencing some sort of… attack… Well, the blood was rushing in his ears and his heart was beating out like a drum. It hurt so much he nearly had to bring his hand to press at his chest. She always made the effort for him… She always considered him…

But what did he do for her? In what way did he make an effort to show her that he appreciated her; had come to care about her? He was struck by the possibility that he might not do enough.

_But you must do something_, a voice whispered in his mind.

She was a young, attractive woman who kept coming back there to him, and… Could it be that… Had she, Merlin forbid, become dependent on _him_?

Immediately, he felt like flagellating himself for even conceiving such a ridiculous notion about her. But… was it so impossible? The facts were before him; hell, they were visible for anyone to read. To dismiss it out of hand would be to ignore nigh on the whole year that had passed behind them.

But the comprehension only made him feel desperately out of his depth. Things like this were not meant to happen to him.

'Severus?' she was saying, and he blinked away his thoughts to look at her.

'I asked if you needed anything?'

'Need?' He swallowed down the anxiety he felt and got to his feet, hoping his legs would not give way beneath him. He tipped his tea with a splash into the sink and watched it disappear down the plughole. 'No… I need nothing…' He closed his eyes for his next words. 'Nothing, but for one thing I'm sure I have no business in requesting.'

He found the strength to turn and make his way past her.

'But what is that?' she asked, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

He paused with a small sigh. Her; he _needed_ her. He wasn't even sure as to the capacity in which he meant it, but the truth remained the same. He wanted to forget about living solely for himself—it was surely a privilege to have someone to rely on? No matter what he told himself, he could not ignore that she had had a great part in re-igniting his interest in life. Oh, he could fob her off with some trifling thing and save himself the trouble of acknowledging all this; he could try and forget this need he had developed for her continued presence… but he wanted her to understand, because he trusted that she would not throw it back in his face.

He looked at her, but no words would come. Perhaps he could embrace her and show her that way—that was the language he knew she spoke well. But even as the idea came to him, he dismissed it. He was too awkward for that action to come off as anything other than uncomfortable. And just when he thought himself unequal to the task, his hand, of its own volition, reached out to her fingers and his thumb passed gently over the back of her hand. It was all the woeful articulacy he could manage, but he felt she understood what he was trying to say.

Her eyes did not become wide with shock, but became the softest he had ever seen, and he forced himself to match them with his own before releasing her hand and heading for the door. With that one small action, he felt oddly liberated. No matter what she might do next, he would take comfort in the fact that after everything that happened in his life, he could still feel and he could still allow enough concession within himself to forget his pride and confess himself as human as the next person.

'Severus?' she called out tentatively and he braced himself, looking to see her holding her hand close to her.

The smile that appeared on her face was warm. 'I think you should know that I consider it no one's business but yours.'

Suddenly he didn't know what to do. And when she approached him his mind emptied further of anything constructive. But again, she seemed to understand what he could not express.

She touched his arm gently. 'But there's time enough, yes…?'

He let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding and gave a minute nod, all the while wishing he could find his voice.

'See you when I get back, then.'

'Yes,' Severus valiantly managed to get out before she Disapparated away. He resolved there and then to make it so she would always come back. He didn't know how, yet, but he could try.

He disappeared into his sitting room and leant back against the door, closing his eyes with a steadying breath. Reliance on another person did not seem nearly so daunting when it was reciprocated. Indeed, he thought he could learn to love it.

No one had ever needed him in the way it mattered most. He might even have become a lucky man, he realised.

And how often had he been able to say that before?

FIN

* * *

AN: Well, I do hope that everyone enjoyed this story as much as I did writing it. I'm very grateful to those who've supported the story by reading and reviewing. Thanks very much indeed!


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